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A PEEP 



Of CONGRESS || 



INTO 



MY NOTE BOOK. 



BY THE AUTHOR OF 
A. GRUMBLER'S ^MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS,' &c. 



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Books should to one of these four ends conduce, 
For wisdom, piety, delight, or use. — Denhaj^s*^^ 

'Tis in books the o|l^, • "^-^''^'^^ 
Of all perfections to be plain and b^i^^^^BuTLEF 4 













/ 



BALTIMORE: 

PUBLISHED BY PLASKITT & CUGLE, 



MDCCCXH. 






> / i 



Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year one thousand 
eight hundred and thirty-nine, by David Hoffman, in the Clerk's 
Office, of the District of Maryland. 



JOHN D. TOY, PRINT*:*. 



CONTENTS. 



Epistle Dedicatort, 5 

Address to my Readers, 9 





CHAPTER I. 




Note I. 


The London Crossings, 


. 31 


II. 


Christian Burial — on terms, . 


39 


III. 


Seclusion from the World, 


. 45 


IV. 


The Young Inebriate, . 
CHAPTER II. 


55 


Note V. 


The Schoolmen, . . . , 


. 70 


VI. 


E Pluribus Unum, 


83 


VII. 


The Philosophical Eater, . 


, 90 


VIII. 


A Curious Proposition, . 
CHAPTER III. 


109 


Note IX. 


St. Peter's Chair, at Rome, 


lis 


X. 


Was St. Peter ever at Romel 


120 


XI. 


Dr. Watson and the Stuart Papers, 


136 



XII. Taking Heaven by Storm, . . U3 



ir CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER IV. 

Note XIII. The Travelling Etymologist, . 151 

XIV. Benvenuto Cellini, .... 165 

XV. Public Cemeteries, ... 175 
XVL Events, how related to remote circum- 
stances, 188 

CHAPTER V. 

Note XVII. Cathedralizing, . . . • 204 

XVIII. An Olla-Podrida, . . • . 225 

XIX. Dreaming, 265 

XX. Thoughts on a Play or two, . . 315 

XXI. The Advantages of Impudence, . 343 



EPISTLE DEDICATORY, 



To THOMAS D^OYLY, Esquire, 

Sergeani-aULaw, Upper Harley street, London, 



My Dear Sir: 

I PRAY permission to dedicate this little 
volume to you, with that high respect and sincerity 
which your character inspires, and with that grate- 
ful remembrance, which your many courtesies to- 
wards me, make me delight to cherish. How 
much, then, do I regret its unworthiness for the 
occasion ! 

It is the second of a series, now in course of 
publication, on a great variety of topics, — the whole 
being designed to be illustrative and somewhat 
corrective, of what is called the New School, and 
to portray the unhappy influences of the present 



vi JJPISTLE DEDICATORY. 

mania in literature over Men, Manners and Things, 
as they appear chiefly on this side of the broad 
Atlantic — and also to recall readers to some retro- 
spect of by-gone days ; and finally, to contrast them 
with that fashionable ultraism so prevalent here, and 
which is no less obvious in our law, government, 
morals, and religion, than it manifestly is in our 
popular literature. 

The tendency of the present age throughout the 
world, but especially in my own country, is towards 
innovation in every thing — -which, though some- 
times fraught with much good, has a hydra-headed 
demon to contend with, in that spirit of ultraism 
and of radicalism, which prompts men to think that 
change must be improvement— -but which the cau^ 
tious venerators of the literature, the law, and the 
manners of the olden times, have so often to deplore, 
mainly because men will not discriminate— and, in 
their eagerness for change, will root up the sturdy 
oaks, with the noxious tares. 

With your great and glorious and prosperous 
country, I think I have more than a slight acquain- 
tance. Your laws have been my devoted study, for 
nearly thirty years. With your institutions, man- 
ners, customs, and state of society, I have made 
myself somewhat familiar, through the medium of 
your varied and extensive literature and science— 



1 



EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 

also by a short residence in your lovely island, 
"where I received that generous and elegant hospi- 
tality, which can never be forgotten by me. 

The result of the whole is a solid conviction, 
that the sterling character of the British nation 
affords the brightest exemplar the world has yet 
known of genuine civilization. 

The Greeks and the Romans of Pagan times, 
and many modern nations of Christendom, were 
and are, also, doubtless civilized— and so are the 
Chinese, and the Turks : but the truest, and most 
infallible of all criterions of genuine civilization is, 
when all things^ in every ramification of life^ are 
in perfect keeping; for, it is v^ath nations as with 
a family; — that family, however humble its means 
may be, is the most civilized, in ^vhich every thing 
is designedly in perfect order, and in admirable 
keeping. 

In England alone, of all ancient and modern 
nations, do we find this rigid keeping in every 
relation of life, in every order of society, in every 
manifestation of their means, from the monarch and 
wealthiest nobleman, to the poorest of the subjects. 
Every man's cottage, or mansion, or palace, or 
farm, or manor, seems as a mirror of his actual 
condition — each and all in admirable keeping. The 
peasant^s cottage is never garish with the furniture 



Vlll EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 



of a mansion — nor that with the gorgeous display 
of a palace ; but each seems to know exactly, and 
to respect with care, its own defined periphery, and 
those of others — and yet, with a perfect liberty and 
ability in its proprietor, to transcend it, whenever 
possessed of the requisite intelligence, morals, man- 
ners, and means, for a more exalted station. But 
this is a theme I must not now dwell upon, as it 
may be the topic, in part, of a future volume. 

I am, my dear sir. 

With high regard. 

Your most obedient servant, 

DAVID HOFFMAN) 

Baltimore, September, 1839. 



ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 



I CRAVE thy pardon, if I have counted without 
mine host, in thus confidently anticipating thou 
ivilt read my book. Upon thy generosity I lately 
cast my ^Miscellaneous Thoughts on Men, 
Manners and Things,' and now venture to offer 
thee another small volume, giving but a Teep 
INTO MY Note Book!' Methinks, I hear many 
of you say, ^thanks to Apollo, it is but a peep ! for 
why should we be troubled with thy cogitations, 
when the world is overrun with 'Thoughts' from 
heads much wiser than thine? witness those of 
Solomon and of Bacon, or of Joe Miller and of 
Lacon! And, as for thy 'Notes,' they are but 
ruminations belonging to the same genus, and we 
hoped to have seen it made highly penal in the 
critic's court, for thee and others, 

*Unblest with sense above their peers refin'd, 
Who thus stand up dictators to mankind.' 

and so egregiously molest the public with a dull 
melange of notions !' 
2 



10 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 

Softly, my exterminating, but truly small critics! 
take thy pen, and essay to do better; and I promise 
thee thou wilt find any book, after it is written, 
seemeth to be a much lighter matter, than when it 
is yet to be created — for well hath the poet said, 

'None but an author knows an author's cares ;' 

and I have seen simpletons when gazing even on 
the Vatican Apollo, and the Venus of the Tribune, 
who could think of nothing but of the extreme 
labour of paring off, from the rude and massive 
block, so much hard marble ! Is it easier, think 
ye, to write much, than little — on various topics, 
concisely, than on one, fully? Are not the dis- 
tilled essences of more value, than the crude and 
bulky simples from which, by 'chymic art,' they 
have been extracted? Why then, are ^Thoughts' 
and ^Notes' to be dealt with so ungenerously? 
The quality, good Mr. Critic !~the quality, alone, 
should be the question; and if my duodecimos, 
(though they be royal,) give thee but terse thoughts, 
and brief notes, wilt thou blame me for not spread- 
ing these out into wordy octavos, or into the still 
more pretending quartos? By my modesty and 
consideration, thou hast been spared the toil of 
much reading, and likewise the dispensing from 
thy purse so lavishly as thou wouldst have done. 
Well hath Master Thomas Nash, of 'Lenten Stuff' 
memory, said, 'every man can say bee to a battle- 
dore — write in praise of virtue and the seven libe- 
ral sciences — thrash corn out of the full sheaves — 
and fetch water out of the Thames : but, out of 
dry stubble, to make an after harvest, and a plenti- 



li 



ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 11 

fill crop without sowing; and to wring juice out 
of a flint, is no every day work, and belongeth not 
to one of a demure and mediocre genus J^ 

And hence I say, commend me to tiny volumes, 
which treat de omnibus^ in the way of distilla- 
tions, — rather than to the mis-shapen and garru- 
lous offspring of an unbridled pen. These last 
may be, and often are in the form of many portly 
volumes, but are equally often filled with the crude 
vagaries, and mawkish fancies of inexhaustible, 
never-ending tale-tellers; or, of the still more ex- 
citing collectors of the marvels of an overgrown 
metropolis ! From very many of these tales you 
may extract a single moral, or a single deep, and 
eloquently exjiressed thought, for, perhaps, every 
hundred pages ; the residue being, perhaps, a con- 
geries of namby-pamby common places; of jejune 
dialogues, and of ill-collocated words and sen- 
tences ! 

And here again doth Master Nash express him- 
tself to my mind, when he saith, 'I had as lief 
have no sun, as have it shine faintly — no fire, as a 
smothering one of small coals — no clothes, rather 
than wear linsey-woolsey.' And so, (taking this 
figuratively,) do I say that, as to the sunshine, fire 
and clothes, which our daily literature doth fur- 
nish, I would dispense with them all, rather than, 
as many are accustomed to do, keep pace in my 
reading with the productions of the modern teem- 
ful press ! and in my writing with the taste of the 
day ! But I do vehemently suspect there be a 
goodly number who read and understand with 



12 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 

more facility, when subjects are spread out unto 
their widest dimensions, than when distilled and 
concentrated into their ultimate elements. And 
this may be, after all, the true secret which solves 
the objection sometimes made, that thoughts and 
notes are apt to be so very concise, and to have so 
little of narrative or illustration, as necessarily to 
be deficient in life and interest. Sage critics ! the 
authors of such productions must indeed, plead 
guilty of the fact, but still, not guilty, as to the 
matter really at issue, since they have made no 
promise to give thee any thing approaching unto 
tales or narratives ; so that, it would be quite as 
reasonable in thee to complain of a treatise of 
algebra, for that it is not poetical, as for thee to 
find fault with Thoughts and Notes, because they 
are not modelled into the fashion of pleasing tales ! 
And yet, in partial conformity to the spirit of 
our times, I have done my poor endeavour, in the 
previous little volume, as also in the present one, 
to blend with the philosophy of thought, and with 
condensation of style, such a measure of sprightli- 
ness, and of dramatic interest, as might harmonize 
with that species of production. And if it suits 
not the taste of some centre-table literati^ I confess 
it hath been made what it is, under, perhaps the 
arrogant, hope of gradually improving their taste ! 
The literature of the centre-table is quite suscep- 
tible, and eminently worthy of improvement. It 
silently exerts a more powerful influence on socie- 
ty than, at first, may be imagined. Why should 
novels, and poetry and the offerings of monthly 



ADDRESS to MY READERS. 13 

scribblers, and the recherche articles of taste, and. 
magnificent engravings, (often, indeed, accompa- 
nied by good matter, seldom carefully read, and 
sometimes not even glanced at, the pictures^ and 
the binding being quite too splendid, and, there- 
fore, too engrossing to invite unto study,) why, let 
me repeat, should all these be permitted to occupy 
the tables of our elite^ to the almost total exclusion 
of works of a more thoughtful and instructive 
character ? 

To elevate the standard of popular literature, and 
especially of that daily and hourly family reading, 
which is taken up at such intervals of comparative 
leisure as are snatched from the more urgent and 
regular occupations of life, it would seem to be 
essential that the works should be, not only en- 
tirely moral, but that the topics should be various 
and concisely treated, the learning a distillation of 
thought treasured up from extensive reading, the 
style animated and smooth, and the mechanical 
execution of the volumes sufficiently good to be 
pleasing, without the least distraction, either of 
mind or purse. Illustrative and splendid engrav- 
ings should be either very sparingly indulged in, 
or be found in distinct volumes; and, indeed, 
would be more appropriately placed on the shelves 
of the library, for occasional consultation, since all 
experience reveals the fact that, when they are 
combined with the volumes on a parlour table, 
they are extremely apt to seduce the mind from the 
more solid matter, and to content the butterfly- 
lookers into bookS; with knowledge gained picto- 
2# 



]4 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 

rially^ and without mental exertion, rather than 
with that which may be acquired typographically^ 
but at the expense of some thought ! True it is, 
this mode suits the erratic rapidity of our age; 
but still the artist must be very clever, if he can 
convey much instruction, unassisted by the letter- 
press. 

This is no slander of the fair sex, nor is it ut- 
tered to the disparagement of the numerous class 
of petit maitre admirers of the beautiful books, so 
garishly displayed on these tables ; for with truth 
may it be said, not one tithe of the reading con- 
tained in these highly embellished and illustrated 
volumes, ever meets so much as the passing notice 
of those even, who most commune with them; 
and until this table-library be nearly divorced from 
such attractions, the hope is vain that the frag- 
ments of our time will be profitably improved ; 
and this is the more to be regretted, as the casual 
moments thus unprofitably occupied, will insensi- 
bly influence and fashion the mind to a still greater 
disregard of solid reading — so that the more exten- 
sive library of the family, or even of the oflice, 
becomes gradually less inviting, than if no centre- 
table, with its diverse and ever-changing accom- 
paniments, had ever been introduced ! How much 
the mind, especially when young and untrained, 
may be injuriously aflfected by such apparently 
trivial influences, can only be known to those who 
have closely observed the matter. 

The literature of the reading-table ought to 
have produced a most salutary effect ; but it is 




ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 15 

my firm conviction that there is far less useful 
reading, and even less of genuine taste, since its 
introduction, than when the old-fashioned, select 
family library used to be resorted to ; whereas, if 
the literature of this table were rendered somewhat 
more solid, and if the book-hinder were not per- 
mitted thus vauntingly to domineer over the author, 
the larger library would be oftener resorted to ; and 
works of fine taste, and of elegant fancy — splendid 
engravings and beautiful illustrations, would be 
coveted and studied, not as the source of mere 
visual gratification, but of high intellectual im- 
provement. 

Methinks I hear Papilla, when reading the 
above, exclaim, 4s not this the most inordinate 
vanity imaginable? — the Goth would actually expel 
from our tables the 'Book of Beauty,' — the 
'Gems of Beauty,' the 'Flowers of Loveli- 
ness,' and all of the splendid 'Annuals,' and 
•Keepsakes !' and give us, in exchange, his moral 
reflections, and philosophical distillations, as he is 
pleased arrogantly to style them !' 'It is indeed,' 
replies Whiskerandos, 'positively shocking; how 
can the man hope for such a thing! surely the 
world is now too wise to go back to such stuff!' 
Soft and fair, dear Miss Papilla, and sage Mr. 
Whiskerandos ! my love for the fine arts, for the 
elegancies of polished life, and for all the beautiful 
books you speak of, is quite as ardent as your 
own ; we, perhaps, differ only as to the use we 
would make of them : but let us compromise mat- 
ters ; you may delight in all the lovely engravings, 



16 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 

and fanciful gildings on the exterior, provided you 
also carefully ^read^ learriy mark^ and inwardly 
digesf that for which all books are made ; and on 
the further condition, that you fail not to do the 
same part by mine^ though they will never have 
any such ornate accompaniments. You see, I am 
far from being a monopolist^ of which I will give 
thee a further proof— in that my simple desire is, 
to win thee to reading and reflection; and if thou 
wilt do this, I shall be altogether content, shouldst 
thou never cast thine eye on any one of the pages 
of my little volumes — and thus, as I hope, 1 have - 
now made the amende honourable^ for my momen- 
tary departure from gallantry. 

But, with the leave of Papilla, and of all her 
class, let me be a little more grave, and to my 
purpose. 

In the following pages my readers will find I 
have, in some degree, consulted the prevalent 
taste, by endeavouring, occasionally ^ to convey my 
moral, or instruction, as the case may be, in some- 
thing after the fashion of a tale ! and, when this is 
not the case, by imparting to each theme as much 
of life and ease, as may consist with the nature of 
my topics — and of my own nature. And yet 
truly, I have never seen any reason why the 
gravest, nay, even the most recondite subjects, 
may not be popularly, and sometimes even spor- 
tively handled ; and I believe that the writings of 
the philosophers, of the school-men, and even of 
the early fathers of the ^mother church,' might be 
thus dealt with, and profitably withal, yet without 



■ 



ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 17 

the least disparagement of their dignity — and that 
when so taken up, our surface readers may thus 
gain some knowledge of facts and opinions in for- 
gotten literature and science, that otherwise might 
never have reached them ! Be this as it may, I 
shall complete my series, in my own way, both as 
to matter and manner, justly hoping, but not ar- 
dently craving, that if in the present day and 
generation, very many should be disposed humour- 
ously to say of me, 

*Our author thus with stufFM sufficiency. 
Of all omnigenous omnisciency, 
Eegan (as who would not begin. 
That had, like him, so much within ?) 
To let it out in books of all sorts. 
In duodecimos, large and small sorts 1' — 

the generation after it may possibly exclaim, *0h 
Vandal age, now gone by ! it was not given to 
thee, whilst in the cartilage^ to be nourished on 
the pith and marrow of that author ; but we, who 
are now in the muscle and bone of maturity, profit 
by his counsels, and take just pride in his old- 
fashioned wisdom.' And thus is it that authors 
do sometimes take comfort unto themselves, even 
at the moment that some Zoilus would deprive 
them of this most benign self-complacency. 

But, you all remember how, some thirty centu- 
ries ago, a powerful monarch, and the wisest of 
men, thus chronicles a lesson of humility for all 
authors — one that is, and will be, equally true 
in all past, present, and future ages — ^my son he 
admonished — op making books there is no end — 
much study is a weariness of the flesh. ' And yet 



18 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 

it would seem strange that in his day, when print- 
ing, stereotypes, and steam-presses were wholly 
unknown, Solomon should have had reason to 
feel so strongly the vanity, and absolute nothing- 
ness of authorship ! Where are now the v/orks, 
nay even the names of the myriads who then 
toiled for fame, if, for a bubble so perishable, they 
did toil, which hath ever seemed to me a most 
unphilosophical libel against the whole fraternity 
of authors, from Solomon's to the present day ? I 
cannot harbour the thought that the love of fame 
ever guided the pen of any author, be he a maker 
of primers or of folios, and whether he were a 
Parley or a Shakspeare, a Pinnock or a Milton, a 
Boz or a Bacon, a Jack Downing or a Newton! — 
but contrariwise, I do verily opine, that nearly every 
other conceivable motive, rather than the love of 
praise, either present, or posthumous, has attended 
them throughout their labours of the pen! To 
recount the incitements that may prompt and nou- 
rish authorship, would itself require a volume, in 
T^hich fame, however, would occupy but an insig- 
nificant section. Even in Lord Byron, it was the 
dread of ennui, an indomitable imagination, a par- 
tial misanthropy, or rather a disgust towards some 
men and things, a strong love of satire, an arro- 
gant contempt of ignorance and of folly — and, in 
fine, a thousand other motives which stimulated 
his pen more constantly and fervently, than any 
regard for ^golden opinions.' And though the 
noble author has said, 

'Tis pleasant sure to see one's name in print; 
A book's a book, although there's nothing in't ; 



ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 19 

yet all know the spirit with which this couplet was 
written, and that no one was less inclined than his 
lordship, to practise what he so much condemned 
in others. The truth is, fame is the last and least 
of all the motives that lead to authorship of any 
kind — and if the lives of Voltaire — of Lope de 
Vega, of Bacon — of Sir Walter Scott, nay of all 
other voluminous writers, be closely examined, I 
cannot but think it would be found that much 
stronger, and more numerous incitements, than the 
praises of men, led them on from small beginnings 
to great results, in authorship. Young, in his 
epistle to Pope, has recorded some of the motives ; 
and he might have easily filled his poetical letter 
with them. 

'Some write confin'd by physic ; some by debt ; 
Some, for 'tis Sunday : some because 'tis wet ; 
Another writes because his father writ. 
And proves himself a bastard by his wit.' 

And I may add, some write because they are the 
merriest crickets that chirp; others, lest they should 
be drowned in their own gall, did they not periodi- 
cally vent their spleen; some write from mere 
repletion of learning ; others from doubts whether 
they possess any ! With some, composition is 
scarce an intellectual toil, but affords them the 
highest mental gratification ; with others, it is a la- 
bour essential to the fixation of their thoughts, and 
to the ascertainment of their own resources ; some 
without the least alloy of selfishness, are actuated 
solely by the hope of benefitting their readers; 
others are prompted by every other selfish conside- 



20 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 

ration, save that of fame. Be the motive, how- 
ever, what it may, no author, in our day, judging 
from the past, can repose with much confidence, 
on securing the grateful remembrance of future 
ages. Dr. Johnson was the idol of his day, and for 
half a generation after ! but his Dictionary, which 
made him, now reposes on many shelves, as mere 
dead lumber; and even our scholars seem to de- 
light in demonstrating his etymological ignorances ! 
Who, of this nineteenth century, now reads the 
Rambler? — not one in ten thousand ! Who, as in 
former days, now with delight, pour over his truly 
admirable Lives of the Poets? Not one, in as 
many hundred — his poetry? one here and there — 
his Miscellaneous Works? scarce any ! And so of 
Milton, Pope, Bolingbroke, Goldsmith, with the 
exception of his Vicar of Wakefield ; and Hume, 
likewise, excepting his History of England. Who 
now reads Spencer — Chaucer — Ben Johnson — 
Davenant — Glover — Marvell — Daniel — Cart wright 
— Hurdis — Chamberiayne — Sir Philip Sydney — 
Sir John Suckling, or even the best among the 
early English dramatic writers ? — few, very few ! 
And, may we not with truth ask, are not the plays, 
even of the immortal bard of Avon, comparatively 
but little read, and still less often enacted; and 
have they not recently, sought more genial realms, 
and become more familiar to German, than even to 
English ears? Well hath Spencer exclaimed, 

How many great ones may remembered be. 
Which in their days most famously did flourish, 
Of whom no word we hear, nor sign now see. 
But as things wip'd with sponge do perish ! 



I 



ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 21 

Now, what hath been said is no exaggerated pic- 
ture of the instability of an author's fame ; and 
shows, moreover, that quantity hath often been 
foolishly permitted to obliterate nearly all estima- 
tion for quality ; and that the works of the most 
sublime genius, equally with those from the most 
leaden-heads, seem destined to be overwhelmed by 
an inordinate love of novelty, generated by the 
trashy biblio-redundancy of the present day. — 
What author, then, can be so weak, as to repose 
on a fame, so truly ephemeral — a fame, which if 
reaped even with acclamation, scarce endures as 
long as many shrubs of his garden ; and when his 
works, if not his name, are infallibly swallowed 
up by the coming wave of a merely popular and 
crude literature ! Hath not each year or two, if 
not month, its fashionable author ; and is not the 
idol now, sure to be soon obscured or forgotten, 
amidst the halo of him who is next on the ascen- 
dant? The richest and most enlarged fame, is 
but sufficient to transmit an author's name ; none 
has ever yet secured, for a great length of time, 
numerous readers. And though Homer's name 
has passed current through nearly three thousand 
years, yet how few, comparatively, have ever read 
either the Iliad or the Odyssey ! Shakspeare's 
name is on the mouth of every one — and yet not a 
twentieth part, even of the reading community, 
born in the present century, have ever read his 
plays! His name pervades Christendom, but he is 
read only by an extremely small portion of the 
British, American and German people ! The ope- 



22 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 

rative fame of Sir Walter Scott has been as great; 
perhaps, as that of any other author, of modern or 
even of ancient days, not excepting even Petrarch 
and Dante ; and yet his numerous works, with all 
their solid worth, are gradually yielding place to 
others, whose readers, pressed by the continual 
flow of new works, can find but little time, even 
for the Waverly Novels ! So that the day may 
well come, and may not be distant, when Sir 
Walter's name^ brilliant, like that of Shakspeare 
and Milton, will scarce retain sufficient ardour to 
command the reading attention of one in a thou- 
sand, even of the reading public ! 

Witness the morbid taste that devours (to the 
exclusion of almost every other species of intellec- 
tual nouriture) those really admirable works, now 
so noised in the world, under the euphonic names 
of ' Pickwick ^^ and ^Nicklehy^ and ^ Slick ^ yea, and 
also an hundred of the like genus, as destitute, 
however, of their conceded genius, as is an egg of 
squareness ! It is not the philosophy, the truth, 
the morals, or the information, to be extracted from 
these fashionable volumes, that these fashionable 
readers are really in search of — for these all, are 
very apt to be either neglected by such diseased 
appetites, or, to be wholly evaporated by the keen 
excitement occasione(i by the spicy and ludicrous 
materials which every where abound in them, and 
which mainly constitute the vehicle by which they 
are imparted. Nothing, now-a-days, can render 
sound knowledge and sober morals even endurable^ 
\xxAq^% fiction ^xA fun be more than prominent — 



ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 93 

and, doubtless, even all history, metaphysics, yea, 
perhaps, even mathematics, and our holy religion 
will have to be ere long, handed over to the 
broadly grinning pens of this YQxy popular class of 
writers ! I love to laugh, and heartily too, yet not 
always, or on all subjects — but such is the mania^ 
now, for the ludicrous, that we may soon look for 
a Prineipia Neivto7ii, edited by some Nicholas 
Nickleby ; or a Polyglot Bible, illustrated by a 
second Cruikshanks ! for, unless philosophy be 
thus disguised by fun, and morals be gilded at all 
points by the fascinations of romance, I ween that 
all the solid books of former days will be consigned 
to the worms, or their contents be cooked up in 
more palatable dishes from the cuisine of 'Messrs. 
Jack Downing, Boz, Slick & Co.!' (an admira- 
ble firm I admit,) but still, not one that should 
swallow up such as 'Messrs. Bacon, Shakspeare, 
Johnson & Co.' and many others that might be 
named. 

The truth, however, is that the existent, and 
used literature of almost any age, but especially of 
our own, when compared with that which is un- 
known, or forgotten, 'as of the days beyond the 
flood,' forms but an insignificant portion of the 
^world of books.' Nearly every age has had its 
favourite and peculiar knowledge, which has super- 
seded, or newly fashioned that of preceding times ; 
and, in looking through the long vista of time, there 
is nothing in man's history that more forcibly shows 
the uncertainty of his attainments, and the fleeting 
duration of even the philosopher's fame, than the 



24 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 

thousand systems and theories that rise, culminate, 
and fall ! Where are now the much vaunted and 
infallible knowledge of Aristotle, the vortices of 
Descartes, the learning of the astrologists, the deep 
researches of the alchemists, the experiments of 
the phlogistians, and the innumerable other devices 
of human invention, and of supposed inestimable 
discovery? — you must seek for them among the 
things that are forgotten; and though they may 
have reigned supreme, in their day, as positive 
knowledge, and have gained their authors much 
fame, they are now regarded but as so many idle 
fancies, that have brought as much reproach, as 
lustre upon our species ! If, then, in the days of 
Solomon, he could truly say^ Uhere is nothing new 
under the sun,^ how many cycles, and revolutions, 
and changes have the great mass of human ideas 
since performed ! — like the congregated and blend- 
ed waters of the ocean's vast reservoir, they have 
assumed an infinitude of forms — they pass into 
clouds and vapours — they descend on the earth 
in rain, snow, hail, frosts, and dews — they form 
springs, and rivulets, and rivers, and lakes and 
seas ; and at last, disappear in the great abyss ; but 
again, at various intervals, and under new modifi- 
cations, to re-appear in other regions, and in other 
ages ! 

Whether, in the glorious days of Israel's great 
monarch, the world were as populous as now, 
can scarce be known ; but if the copia librorum 
were then deemed an evil, it must be a still greater 
one at this time \ if, indeed, an evil it can be at all. 



ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 25 

The earth is computed now to contain about eight 
hundred millions of inhabitants — the larger part of 
whom are grossly illiterate and without books; 
and yetj it is not improbable, there are now as 
many printed and manuscript volumes, (not distinct 
works) as there are people on the face of the globe; 
and in Christendom, vastly more! Book-making 
seems to go on in a kind of geometrical ratio, for 
the very purpose, it would seem, of keeping pace 
with population ; thus giving another proof against 
Mr. Malthus, who says that population increases in 
that ratio ; but that the supply of food is only an 
arithmetical progression ! 

Had the millions of volumes that now repose, 
in dusty oblivion, in our numerous public and 
private libraries, the faculty of locomotion, and 
of speech, withal, so as to reveal their hidden 
treasures to willing auditors, what a march of 
mind would then ensue! But, as matters now 
are, it would require the press to be vastly more 
prolific than it is, before its redundancy could be 
justly regarded, if ever, as an essential evil. We 
are not used to complain of too much air, nor 
yet of too much earth, or water; why then of. 
too many books? This per se^ cannot occasion a 
diminution of readers ; nor is it the cause even of 
superficial reading — neither the quantity, nor the 
quality being, of itself an evil, much to be com- 
plained of What, then, is the true ground of 
complaint? It surely is not over-much reading, 
nor indiscriminate reading; but merely and wholly 

that the reading of our day is rather guided by 
3# 



36 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 

fashion, by a love of novelty, and an indomitable 
passion for excitement^ than by any sound judgment 
and careful selection — and finally, that many per- 
sons are mere collectors of books, who are mainly 
content with looking at them ! Were every indi- 
vidual, on the contrary, true to himself, how idle 
would the complaint then be, that his field for 
selection was too vast ! 

Whilst authors, therefore, are humiliated by 
this unfounded, and oft reiterated lament, readers 
should remember that the fault is wholly their 
own; for although the natural atmosphere may 
be vitiated by many noxious elements flowing 
into it, the world of good books must continue 
unchanged, though very many worthless ones may 
issue daily from the press. Proximity, or juxta- 
position between books, can occasion no contagion 
or infection among their contents ; the virtuous 
and the vicious reciprocally will continue to avoid 
what suits not their taste ; and after all, the useless 
and vicious books, compared with those of various 
degrees of merit, would be found so truly insignifi- 
cant, as scarce to be worthy of notice. 

All, then, that is required is, that we should 
abandon a morbid love of novelty, an unmeaning 
fashion in literature; and select with some judg- 
ment, from the works of all ages, and of all nations. 
Were such the conduct of readers^ with what pride 
might authors then frequent the now almost deso- 
late halls of the numerous libraries of Europe — 
which, though daily visited by a few strangers, to 
take a passing look at the myriads of printed 



ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 27 

volumes and manuscripts — and also by a little 
fraternity, of zealous students, who, in utter disre- 
gard of fashion pay their ardent homage to the pro- 
ductions of all ages, and of all nations, are still, 
comparatively, forsaken halls, because the general 
public have, of late, too much encouraged the 
notion that nearly all that dates beyond the present 
century, should be consigned to the oblivion of 
dusty shelves, as fit only for professors, for book- 
worms, and biblio-maniacs — curious to look at, but 
unfit to be read, except by such devotees ! 

I repeat, then, were readers to select with judg- 
ment, uninfluenced by fashion, by the love of 
novelty, and by a mawkish taste for mere excite- 
ment, authors would feel a just pride at then 
seeing these libraries crowded with readers ; each 
taking, as it were from a sea of volumes, to suit 
his individual taste. Then would the Bodleian, 
at Oxford, the Library of the British Museum, 
at London, the Bibliotheque du Roi^ of Paris, the 
Imperial Libraries at Vienna and St. Peters- 
burg, the Royal Library, at Dresden, and that 
of the Vatican, be no longer the occasional resort 
of the idle and merely curious, but the habi- 
tual rendezvous of crowds of zealous students, 
offering at the shrine of the congregated genius 
and learning of all ages, their deepest devotions, 
without inquiring whether their productions are 
wet from the press — are in gorgeous binding — or 
enriched with splendid engravings ! These would, 
indeed be halcyon days for authors : and then, 
even the meritorious primer, would receive its 



28 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 

meed of notice, and of praise. But, alas ! as mat- 
ters now are, we are compelled to fear that even 
Sir Walter, and all who aspire to be classed with 
him, cannot but have often sighed, when passing 
through the avenues of these extensive libraries, to 
find countless volumes of great excellence, and 
once so famous, now resting in undisturbed and 
dusty oblivion ; some of them, perhaps, for ages, 
and many of equal worth, though but a few years 
old, already placed on remote shelves, among past 
and nearly forgotten literature ! Did they not 
therein perceive their own inevitable doom? and 
was there not a still, small voice that whispered, 
^see ! to this we must all come at last — nay shortly P 
Who, then, let me again ask, would write for 
fame? 

But books, unto some men, and especially unto 
authors, are as so many idols : and if they be, to a 
few, even loathsome, and to others, things of in- 
difference, and to many, objects of an unmeaning 
fashion, occasioning them to be purchased, and, 
possibly, to be hastily read ; yet all this deters not 
an author from writing and publishing, so long as 
he delights in intellectual exertion, and hopes his 
works may prove useful^ even to a select few ! 
Such an author will remember how often he hath 
seen (maugre the alleged redundancy of the 
press) a libraryless scholar of great worth, on the 
one hand, and a vast collection made by some 
wealthy, but illiterate and selfish biblio- maniac, 
on the other, to whom, with old Fuller, he might 
have said — Salve doctor^ sine librisy unto the 



ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 29 

former, and Salvite librij sine doctore, unto the 
latter : the one he would strongly encourage with 
every soothing language; the other's proud crest 
he would razee down, until he found for him, his 
true and ignoble level ! With what exultation, 
moreover, would such author throw open to the 
bookless scholar, the recherche library of one of 
these churlish collectors, whose only connection 
with books is to see them magnificently bound, 
fancifully arranged, and caligraphically catalogued! 
And how different would be the emotions (if any) 
of such a mere collector, when contemplating his 
books, from the enthusiasm of Richard de Bury, 
who, when surveying his library, exclaimed — Hi 
sunt magistri qui nos instruunt sine vergis et 
ferula^ sine verbis et colera, sine pane et pecunia. 
Si accedis non dormiunt ; si enquiris non se abscon- 
dunt ; non remurmurant si oberres ; cachinos si 
ignores. The like feelings also actuated Bar- 
THOLiNi, in his dissertation De libris legendi^ 
when he thus naively and laconically declares, the 
praises of books — Sine libris, Deus jam siletj Jus- 
titia quiescitj torpet Medicina^ Philosophia manca 
est, LettercB multce, omnia tenebris involuta cim- 
meriis: and Cicero, contemplating a friend sur- 
rounded by a library, evidently regarded it as 
among the most enviable of conditions — Bum 
vidi in Bibliotheca sedentem, multis circumfusis 
LIBRIS. Est enim, ut sis^ in eo inexhausta 
AviDiTAS legendi, nee sactiari protest. 

An author, then, has both an abstract, and a 
practical delight in books; and possesses none of 



30 ADDRESS TO MY READERS. 

those niggard motives, which a crude and miscel- 
laneous world would impute to him. Even fame, 
Xvith its silvery sounds, and golden promises to the 
ear, comes late, if it comes at all ; and passes but 
feebly over his mind, as an incitement to exertion. 
And, be he an author of primers, or of folios — of 
fancy's tales, or of the weightier matters of Law 
or of Metaphysics, his own gratification is ever 
sufficient for him, without the adscititious aid of a 
fame, which, if it happen to extend much beyond 
his own localities, is still very sure to perish, long 
before his paternal dwelling, though of wood, has 
sought its kindred earth ! ! 

I have said thus much to account, as well as it 
may, for the small share I have had, or may have, 
in authorship : but. Gentle Reader, of this be 
assured ; I care not a carlino what thy opinion 
may be ; for, if this volume, the preceding ones, 
and those which may follow, be without merit, I 
should be the last to desire to see them valued ; but, 
if they prove worthy, they will not be neglected, 
by some few — at least, among people of judg- 
ment, — and, as to the rest, they are a 'profanum 
vulgus^ of whom, if I do not say 'odi et arceo^ it 
is not because I do not feel so ; for truly, it is not 
in my nature to covet their admiration. 

David Hoffman. 

Baltimore y June, 1839. 



PEEP INTO MY NOTE BOOK. 



CHAPTER I. 

I. THE LONDON CROSSINGS. — II. CHRISTIAN BURIAL — 071 terms. 
III. SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. — IV. THE YOUNG 
INEBRIATE. 

NOTE I. THE LONDON CROSSINGS. 

It is said that nature abhors a vacuum, and, of 
course, that she loves a plenum ! Now, as it seems 
to me, there is in this more than, at once, meets 
the eye ; for in truth, this principle is the copious 
source of all the action and vitality of hfe. Hence 
is it that the infinitesimal interstices of time, which 
by the idle are not only thrown away, but are to 
them absolutely invisible, are to the industrious, 
fragments of great moment, out of which they 
compose hours, days, and weeks of usefulness; 
and, by collecting them, they 'let no particle of 
time fall useless to the ground.' So, likewise, in 
crowded communities, thousands, nay millions, 
live on the very refuse and parings of the innu- 



32 THE LONDON CROSSINGS. 

merable vocations of life, which in the detail seem 
valueless, but in the aggregate will be found to 
sustain the larger portion of human, and of other 
existences ! 

A traveller can scarce occupy himself more 
amusingly, and profitably, withal, than in solving 
the difficulty that is sure to present itself to his 
mind, on passing through the teeming streets of 
an immense city — when he involuntarily asks 
himself, 'what is it that sustains these myriads 
of people, how is it that they seem to live upon 
one another?' not indeed, by that great law of 
nature, the bellum omnimn m omnia, but by a 
principle the reverse of this ; for they reciprocally 
create for each other's use, but most of them in so 
minute a way, as nearly to elude detection. To 
find out the secret, then, of this great problem, you 
must not only visit their manufactories of every 
kind, great and small, but you must go into the 
abodes of poverty, and of untold wretchedness, and 
examine how, and on what, they live ; and you 
will there find that there is absolutely preserved 
from destruction, and converted to innumerable 
salutary purposes, more than the closet philosopher 
can well credit ; and that the poveri, whose sole 
employment, during many hours of the day, is the 
collection of these offals, are not only thereby sus- 
taining themselves, but adding immensely to the 
augmentation of individual and national wealth ! 

This politico-economical exordium may, possi- 
bly, seem as little connected with the theme of my 
note, as an Ionic capital on an Egyptian column ! 



THE LONDON CROSSINGS. 33 

but the phenomena of mental associations would 
soon explain this; and he is no metaphysician who 
would expect that I should stop and explain it. 

On a chilly November day, I found myself 
enveloped in a yellow and black, humid, and 
dirty atmosphere, not unappropriately called, in 
this mammoth town, 'pea- soup weather !' The 
crossings as usual were somewhat dry and fast 
land, with a wall of villanous mixture on either 
side, which seemed to have a provoking proclivity 
to run in upon the path, in spite of the man, 
woman, or child, as the case might be, with a 
stout birch broom, who assiduously applied it, 
with one eye intent on their office, and the other, 
no less so, on the numerous persons that, on tip- 
toe, were hurriedly passing over. These sweepers 
had generally received my grateful attention ; but, 
in passing over Old Cavendish street, a very inte- 
resting little girl, barefooted, and in rags, importu- 
nately solicited the customary charity which, from 
the haste I was then in, or from the influences of 
the murky atmosphere, I know not which, I rudely 
checked and dismissed her penniless ! Proceeding 
on my way, my heart was ill at ease ; and my 
hand coming in contact with my purse, admo- 
nished me of my cruel rebuff", — so that my steps 
were soon retraced to seek the little sufferer. 

^Are you not very cold, my little girl?' — ^Indeed, 
yes sir, and hungry too ; I hurt my foot, (which 
was tied up in a coarse rag,) and it pains me very 
much this muddy weather.' 'Have you a mother?' 
rejoined I— 'No sir, this autumn is three years 
4 



34 THE LONDON CROSSINGS. 

since my mother died.' 'And your father?' *He 
is a tin workman, is very poor, and not able now 
to do work^ having chopped off his fore finger ; I 
have three sisters and one brother.' 'At what time 
of day do you come to this work ?' 'At eleven 
o'clock, your honour, every day, saving Sunday, 
and leave off at five ; but before eleven, I pick up 
old rags, paper, twine, and any things and make 
a few half pence, almost every day, in that way.' 
A flood of thought, as well as of feeling, rushed 
into my mind : 'this little utilitarian,' said I men- 
tally, 'is more nobly and profitably employed in 
her humble vocation, than many of the children 
of affluence ; we often curse the flies, and thou- 
sand insects that crowd the air, and treat them 
rudely, and even murder them recklessly, though 
God hath assigned them, in procuring their daily 
sustenance, the salutary office of purifying the air, 
that man may breathe it the more freely ! and I, 
regardless of a like great law, would have chubbed 
this poor child, who in her humble station, forms 
a link, however small, in the great chain that binds 
together the countless occupations of life !' 

Recovering from this momentary, and rapid 
musing, 'but little girl, are you quite sure you 
are telling me the truth?' 'Oh yes sir, my mother 
and father always told me how great a sin it is to 
tell lies ; and our Sundgiy-school teachers tell us 
that constantly.' 'Well, come with me, and you 
shall have a pair of shoes.' No painter, nor sculp- 
tor, nor well devised words, could portray the 
heavenly expression that played over the child's 



THE LONDON CROSSINGS. 35 

countenance at this announcement ! Surprise, and 
joy, and gratitude, all delightfully blended, beamed 
from her face, removed every insidious doubt; and, 
at once, more than thrice repaid me. As she fol- 
lowed on, looking for a shoe-store, I proposed to 
enter one. If you please sir, not in there, I should 
like to get a good strong serviceable pair, and I 
fear none such could be got there, they are made 
for the quality folks.' So I abandoned myself to 
her direction ; and arriving at one, 'perhaps you'd 
be so good as to give me a pair of quarter-boots, 
they would keep me much warmer than shoes, and 
would serve me longer.' Her preference was grati- 
fied, and she perfectly fitted. By this time, the 
child had winned greatly upon my sympathies, 
and her cold feet, now clad, reminded me of stock- 
ings — these were soon procured, — but this com- 
fortable equipment ill assorted with the thin and 
miserable rags around her person ; so we entered 
another store, and a warm flannel petticoat was 
added to her stock; which however, so poorly 
suited to come in contact with her tattered frock, 
that this deficiency was also supplied. 'And now, 
my little girl, here is a shilling for your dinner' — 
and so we parted, she to her crossings, and I to 
my almost forgotten visit. On arriving at the spot 
where the 'still small voice' had turned me back to 
my duty, I breathed far more freely, and marvelled 
to think how much balm to my own feelings had 
been procured, for the paltry sum of fifteen shil- 
lings ; the little girl I met again ; but more of that 
anon. 



36 THE LONDON CROSSINGS. 

My visit being accomplished, I was much struck 
on my return, close to the same crossings, with the 
unique appearance of a lame, and tattered negro, 
as much like 'Jim Crow' as two peas; my heart 
yearned towards him, for I thought of my own 
dear country, and supposed he was from thence — 
such being the sympathy that often springs up, 
in a foreign land, which like misery, makes us 
willing to claim strange fellowships ! 

^And what is your employment, Cassar?' ^Why, 
massa, my name is not Caesar, but I picks up a 
few pence in doing almost any thing. I wanted a 
crossing, but that there little gal yonder, would'nt 
let me distarb her, for she had it long fust ago, 
and so its not consionable for me to do so, massa.' 
'I am glad you think so, your conscience spoke 
truly; and I hope you will never trouble that 
little girl — for if she be as good as she seems to 
be, I will protect her — but where did you come 
from, and what brought you to the country?' 
"Why, massa, I am from St. Kitts, and am wait- 
ing for my money.' ^For your money! my good 
man, why what do you mean?' 'It's fourteen 
thousand pounds, massa, tb«e money is all here, 
and I have the certificate from the commissioner.' 
^Why, then, are you now so poor, and naked^ and 
who withholds your money?' *Why, massa, I 
don't comperhend, at all, why I don't get it — I 
have been told so many things about it, which 
I don't comperhend, that I begin to be affeard I 
shall nebber get it at all.' 'Have you any one to 
attend to it?' 'Yes, massa, a lawyer, but he seems 



THE LONDON CROSSINGS. 37 

to me a small one, not a quality one ; but the Afri- 
can Sciety has lately promised to get it for me — so 
my lawyer, I spose, must gin it up, and I shall be 
rite glad on it.' ^Well, my good fellow, I suppose 
all you tell me is true?' 'Lord, massa, I'll go this 
instant wid you to the Sciety.' 'Well, then, here's 
a half crown, so, good morning.' 

What a microcosm is this London ! It verily 
seemeth to me that here may be found an exem- 
plar of every variety of the human race the world 
affords ; and that man has never yet been carica- 
tured^ not even by that prince of caricaturists, 
Cruikshanks ; who having painted individuals 
faithfully from the life, and happily blended and 
concentrated them under humorous associations, 
has produced effects so truly amusing, and, appa- 
rently, so exaggerated, that the realities of life 
seem, at first, to be lost in the mere creations of 
a fertile imagination — but let this pass. 

A few days after the occurrences I have men- 
tioned, I had occasion again to pass the crossing 
in. Cavendish street, and how great was my morti- 
fication in seeing the little sweeping girl clad in 
her former rags, and even with naked feet ! She 
instantly recognized me, and responded to my 
silent and penetrating look of reproof, by a manner 
so truly artless, and with such an openness of 
countenance, as, at once, in great part, restored 
my confidence. 'What have you done with the 
clothes, and why are you again almost naked V 
'I am trying to get them back again from our land- 
lord, who took all from me, for my father's rent ! 
4* 



38 THE LONDON CROSSINGS. 

We have to pay him every Saturday night, and it 
is now three Saturdays since he got any, except 
the shilling your honour gave me, and one of my 
own ; he has been very kind in waiting so long, 
and in one week more I hope I shall pay him all ; 
the things are all safe, I saw them all this morn- 
ing, and if you will go with me, you can count 
them all yourself I promptly looked and acted 
assent to her proposition, and she and I were soon 
at the door of the flinty-hearted and merciless 
landlord. Surely it was no apple, however beau- 
tiful in varied hues, and mellow with delicious 
juices, that could have brought ^death into the 
world, with all our woes' — but palpable coined 
money ! — money, not only the 'root,' but the stem, 
branch, bud, flower, seed, and fruit ^of all evil !' 

She bid me enter, and spoke to those within, of 
her hope to pay them all in a week or more, to 
redeem her clothes— nothing, however, but the 
monosyllables, 'well,' 'good,' 'do so,' escaped the 
lips of those around her, who seemed to be the 
landlord and his tender-hearted companion for life ! 
My heart sickened within me, I could not speak — 
I was satisfied of her perfect truth, and of man's 
more than barbarous nature: and suddenly leaving 
the little girl, I hastened home, resolved to pour 
out the full torrent of my indignant feeling in a 
more tangible and enduring form, than in rash and 
spoken words ! And such a letter ! ! — but there it 
rests, as first it was recorded in my note-book — 
and there it shall remain, unscrutinized by other 
eye than his who penned it — and why? — because 



I 



CHRISTIAN BURIAL — 071 icrms, 39 

the little girl, with far better sense than mine, 
thankfully handed me back my ireful epistle, when 
I called at the crossings at the close of the week, 
with the seal unbroken^ saying, 'you see, sir, our 
landlord has been paid by me, and I have now 
my clothes on. I feared his great anger against 
my father, if I delivered your letter, and so I hope 
your honour will excuse me in disobeying your 
order.' 'I truly do, my little girl, and am happy 
to find you far more discreet than myself,^ So 
taking my leave, I found that I had learned from 
this child at the crossings, three things — that we 
can live happily and virtuously on very little — that 
an economical people may live on what a thriftless 
people (as we Americans) set little or no store by — 
and lastly, that it is often far better to be coun- 
selled, as this child was, by the calculations of 
prudence, than by the impulses of feeling, as I 
was, however honest they may have been. 



NOTE II. — CHRISTIAN BURIAL — 071 terms* 

The sun had just set, in glowing colours, 
through a mass of transparent clouds, that hung 

over the summit of Monte , when I arrived at 

the only locanda of a small village, situate at the 
foot of the mountain. The house had a most 
forbidding aspect; but the wearied traveller in 
Italy, is sometimes not permitted to be fastidious ; 
and is most happy to obtain shelter and food, 
however indifferent they promise to be. My car- 
riage door was incontinently beset, by a crowd of 



40 CHRISTIAN BURIAL — on terms. 

miserable old men, haggered old women, impo- 
verished children, bandit-looking young men ; all 
of them the importunately begging poveri of a dirty 
and dilapidated town ; which, if it had ever known 
better days, could only have been in some pre- 
ceding century ! The rudeness with which the 
padrone soon made an opening for me, through 
this mass of human depravity and wretchedness, 
greatly shocked me for a moment ; until finding 
that they pressed in upon me, at all sides, exposing 
their deformed and horridly diseased limbs, as 
provocatives to my bounty, and forcing themselves 
with me up a long flight of muddy stone stairs, to 
the very door of the salle it manger^ I became 
assured that locks and bolts, as well as the pa- 
drone's harshness, were needed for my protection, — 
they being quite too numerous to be appeased by 
alms, in an ordinary way. 

The room door, however, was finally closed 
against them ; and the servants, in time, obtained 
the mastery over them, on the outside ; but from 
the windows I perceived they had resumed their 
former station before the portal, — apparently in 
readiness for other comers ! Shortly after, a small 
two-horse berUn drove up, and a like attack was 
made upon. it. The crowd, however, on finding 
that the vetturino had to take the only individual 
it contained, in his arms, and carry him up stairs, 
he being apparently, nearly in the article of death, 
quietly retired from the house, as if superstitiously 
shocked with the presage of death, so likely soon 
to follow ! The unfortunate stranger was taken 



CHRISTIAN BURIAL — 071 terms. 41 

by the vetturino, into a gloomy and damp cham- 
ber, destitute of fire and carpet, and so barren of 
every comfort, even for a well man, that all the 
beauties and charms of Italy were, for the moment, 
forgotten by me ; and I felt as if the whole land 
was cursed with ignorance, superstition, vice, dis- 
gusting maladies, and hopeless beggary! All who 
have visited that country must, I think, have 
experienced the like alternations of feeling, — for 
beauty and deformity — wealth and poverty — mag- 
nificence and meanness — adoration and profanity — 
piety and superstition — ignorance and learning — 
cleanliness and beastiality — genial sunny skies and 
gloomy chilling blasts — lovely women and loath- 
some hags, are all more strangely blended, and 
more frequently witnessed there, than, perhaps, 
in any other land ! 

Italy is truly a country greatly blessed of God, 
and cursed of man — one to be loved and hated — 
sought and avoided — praised and blamed ; — a coun- 
try that all must desire to visit, few to live and die 
in — a land of numerous reminiscences, quite as 
full of pain, as of pleasure — a land where civilized 
man was never greater, and yet where civilized 
man was never more debased — a land, in fine, 
where may be culled all that ennobles, and all that 
dishonours our species ! Is it strange, then, that 
a traveller should experience over his feelings, 
these passing clouds that obscure, for a time, the 
recollection of better things ? X think not — and so 
it was with me, when I beheld an interesting 
youth, who had come from some distant country, 



42 CHRISTIAN BURIAL — 071 UrmS. 

to seek among these far famed, ^soft blue skies, and 
balmy air,' a medicament for diseased lungs, and 
a half expiring constitution, lying in a room so 
cheerless, so comfortless, as this ! And yet, how 
often have travelling invalids to experience this 
and still more, in Italy f Let none such come, 
unattended by every mearts of securing all the 
advantages and comforts that may there be found — 
for they do exist, but are only to be obtained with 
some care, and with no little exercise of prudence ; 
but, \xi the absence of these, Italy, as it seems to 
me, is the last of countries that a diseased man 
should seek. This digression ended, proceed we 
now to the object of our Note. — The chamber 
door, of the diseased youth, was beset with the 
curious lookers-on ; some of whom were crossing 
themselves, as if in the immediate presence of the 
grim monarch, for the youth seemed in much pain, 
and looked upwards, with so intense a gaze, th)at 
heaven was manifestly the sole object of his 
thoughts. Appliances for the body were not for a 
moment thought of — the stranger's soul demanded 
instant ministration ; and a shorn and belted priest, 
of 'holy catholic church,' was soon in the stran- 
ger's presence. 

*You seem very ill, my young friend,' said the 
padre^ 'and I have come to make your path to 
heaven, as smooth as may be, to us sinners.' 'I 
am, indeed, very ill,' replied the youth, 'and have 
need of spiritual comfort, — much of which I find 
in this blessed volume — but I truly thank you 
for your pious errand.' 'This volume is indeed, 



CHRISTIAN BURIAL — ou ierms. 43 

the door to life eternal,' rejoined the padre^ (taking 
the protestant testament from his spiritual patient, 
eyeing it with a rapid scrutiny, then laying it 
silently on the table, and abruptly, but softly, inter- 
rogating him,) ^ do you die a catholic?' 'I hope/ 
said the youth Ho die a christian.^ ^True, my 
young friend, but I wish to hear^you say, you die 
a catholic christian.' 'I find no such an adjunct 
in any of the Scriptures,' gently added the young 
man. ^That may well be so, to your vision ; but 
you will find it in all of the Fathers of our holy 
church, who understood the Scriptures, and knew 
the traditions of our religion far better than you 
do, — and they were all catholics.' 'Is it not now 
too late for me to settle such nice points of faith V 
feebly rejoined the youth. 'It is never too late-— 
remember the thief upon the cross !' 'True, sir, it 
can never be too late to repent^ whic>h the thief 
did, but without having time to solve any of the 
deep questions that might, even then, have been 
put to him ; and which, if put, could have only 
uselessly agitated his soul — my reply to you, my 
good friend, is, that I humbly trust I shall die 
a christian.' 'But how can you be a christian, 
unless you are a catholic ; is not the faith one, and 
the church oneV 'The faith, indeed, ought to be 
one, and the church one ;' rejoined the young man, 
'but alas ! I find a thousand faiths, and as many 
churches ; and hence, padre, I do desire to go 
back to the first faith, and to the first church.' 
The eyes of the importunate son of the church, 
brightened with pleasure at these words ; but the 



44 CHRISTIAN BURIAL — 071 terms. 

youth continued. ^Alas! where can I find this 
unmixed faith, and primitive church ? I see it not 
among the cathohcs, nor yet even among the pro- 
testants ; and therefore is it that I would seek to be 
a mej^e christian^ with no other prefix or affix ; and 
this, as it seems to me, can be found only in the 
Holy Scriptures, designed for babes, as well as for 
learned Fathers.' The padre suddenly arose, 
bowed, and retired, — audibly muttering, 'had he 
but said he died a catholic, he would have had a 
christian burial — but now, he must be laid in the 
earth as a heathen, or a dog !' 

I could contain myself no longer. I had wit- 
nessed the colloquy, with some vexation of spirit, 
and no little astonishment— but this last unfeeling 
intimation to a dying man, nearly overwhelmed 
me; and^ approaching his bed, I gently took the 
youth's hand, 'j^ou have fought a good fight,' said 
I, 'and in me, you will find a friend without con- 
ditions.^ He ardently thanked me — but his time 
had evidently come — he died that night ! 

On the following day I sought out the padre, 
and his holy associates ; but they were all inflexi- 
ble — so the youth was deposited in unhallowed 
ground, alongside of no mortal ! but, I confess, I 
was pleased to find no lights burning around his 
remains, no orisons offered up, by such earthy 
christians, who seemed so much more to value a 
confession of catholic faith, than the heart-felt out- 
pourings of a primitive christian repentance ! No 
latin formulas, moreover, were pronounced over 
his coffin ; but he was unceremoniously laid in his 



SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 45 

solitary grave — far — far from his home and friends ; 
whilst the by-standers were looking on, to see how 
a heathen should be buried ; and some of the dig- 
nitaries of the church were, also, hard-by, seeming 
to look ifidignatioUy that such youthful firmness 
could resist, in a catholic land, the importunities 
and threats of the ^Holy Mother Church.' 



NOTE III. SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 

Man is essentially a social being — society is 
his natural element — all the amiable affections of 
the heart receive in it their due expansion — all the 
powers of his mind are there invigorated; and, if 
he may suffer the poisons which float in its atmos- 
phere to corrupt him, so may he also be sure of 
being strongly nourished by the elements of good 
which every where abound. There are some who 
are misanthropes, so there are atheists ; but as 
even the existence of the latter has been doubted, 
the former are almost equally rare. 

To me it has been ever most evident, that those 
who mix freely, but not lavishly with the world, 
are often, not only more exempt from narrow pre- 
judices, and from vulgar jealousies, but that their 
morals, and even their religion, when they once 
overtly profess it, are apt to be of the most elevated 
and truly christian stamp : whereas, those who, 
from any cause, habitually shun the converse of 
society, especially, if from fear of the contagion of 
bad example, are very apt to fall into greater errors 
themselves; and frequently, by an over-saintly 
5 



46 SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 

avoidance of communion, foster such a self-com- 
placency, false pride, and uncharitable view of 
men and things, as are greatly at variance with 
that bland and holy spirit which so eminently 
marked their great Master. 

I have scarcely ever seen man or woman, after 
retiring from their associations, and habitually 
seeking for happiness in the resources of their own 
minds, in their books, or even in their own parti- 
cular cliques^ who were not somewhat deficient in 
chi^istian charity! They may have abandoned 
many vices, they may have conformed to many 
new and excellent rules of life, and very properly 
have separated themselves from many, nay, from 
most of their former associations, and yet have 
gone too far in looking for the virtues — the solaces 
of the heart — the guards of religion, in retirement. 
An acerbity of temper, a jaundiced view of life, a 
melancholy contemplation of religion, a narrow 
conception of the glories of nature, and even of 
the attributes of Deity, seem almost universally 
to predominate in such people. 

Those who selfishly avoid the world, that they 
may shun the possibility of contagion, are, indeed, 
less criminal than those who perseveringly fre- 
quent it, with no other view than to reap its 
pleasures, with an heart unmindful of the great 
Author of all sources of rational enjoyment : but 
the loftiest christian character is he who contem- 
plates all life as a vast garden, full of beauteous 
flowers, of goodly trees and shrubs bearing whole- 
some and savoury fruits, — a garden refreshed by 
many rivulets, and limpid fountains, pouring forth 



SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 47 

Streams of living waters ! And though there be in 

it many rocks, and precipices, and noxious weeds, 

ai;id quicksands, and muddy pools, yet remembers 

that Man is every where to be found therein — 

every where to be ministered unto — every where 

to be sought after ; and that his province is to dwell 

in this garden, seeking whom he may serve, never 

solely intent on securing the goods and avoiding 

the evils ; but, whilst he is constantly striving to 

rescue some from the dangers that may beset 

them, takes due care of himself, lest he be dashed 

from the precipices, poisoned by the weeds, or be 

merged in the pools and quicksands, that may 

environ his paths. 

When SiMiLis withdrew himself from court, 

perhaps, from satiated appetites, and became an 

impassioned admirer (all at once) of retirement, 

which he indulged in during the seven last years 

of his life — he prepared the following inscription 

for his tomb : 

'Here lies Similis. His life was seventy-six years ; 
He lived but seven!' 

Were we, however, to inquire minutely into the 
arcana of Similis' life during these vaunted seven 
years, it is quite probable we should find it stained 
by much of selfism ; and brightened by less of 
charity towards his species, than during his long 
period at court, though surrounded by so many 
worldly glories ; and that, on the whole, he bene- 
fitted many more, during the years he would thus 
unceremoniously have expunged from the recol- 
lection of his existence, than during the seven 



48 SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 

years of his beloved and rigid retirement. The 
life of a courtier may, indeed, be characterized by 
uselessness, folly, and vice ; but it may be equally 
full of beneficence, of wisdom, and of virtue. The 
error, then of Similis was double, first in not fully 
improving the wide field which his courtly station 
afforded him — and next, in supposing that seclu- 
sion from the world could benefit either himself or 
others. In the world, we may do much good — in 
retirement, this is scarce possible. In the presence 
of man, we see things as they are, and learn how 
to avoid and to mitigate evils ; but in seclusion a 
veil is drawn before us, that either obscures, or 
falsely colours most things. And yet we should 
not fail to distinguish the life of a religeuse, how- 
ever recluse it may be, from that of a disappointed 
and exhausted worldhng, who seeks retirement 
from misanthropy, having at the same time, none 
of those consolations that flow from communion 
with the spiritual world. The former, though apt 
to entertain some erroneous views of his duties 
towards God and man, is still most honest in his 
purposes ; has a peaceful conscience ; and is in the 
direct road to Heaven. His partial demerit con- 
sists in falsely supposing that life, as it is, must be 
wholly shunned by him, since communion with it 
brings either imitation, ^that stains our innocence,'^ 
or disapproval, that 'wounds our peace.'^ This, 
however, as it seems to me, is false philosophy ; 
for, as piety consists as much with society, as with 
retirement, imitation of folly, or of vice is far from 
being a necessary result; and disapproval of them, 



SECLUSION PROM THE WORLD. 49 

SO far from being a source of wounded peace, is a 
high duty, the perforniance of which may well be 
a source of happiness. 

Seclusion from society, on the other hand, when 
it springs from the satiety of too much enjoyment; 
or from wounded ambition, which generates misan- 
thropy, is generally a mental disease that should 
excite pity, rather than strong reproach. It is a 
state, moreover, barely consistent with religion of 
any kind; for, the mind disgusted with the remi- 
niscences of sated passions, or brooding over the 
past, with vain regrets at disappointed schemes, 
looks not to the future, either here or hereafter, as 
a source of calm enjoyment ; and all that such a 
mind can then hope for, would be little more than 
a negative or joyless existence. 

But, dismissing these two classes, is there any 
other really recluse life that is sustained by posi- 
tive merit? Not one that my fancy, even, can 
well conceive — for, the retirement, so fascinatingly 
described by the poets, is but a withdrawal from 
the pleasures, the cares, and the responsibilities 
of life, that we may luxuriate in enjoyments of 
another kind : it is but changing the scene, bring- 
ing with it, indeed, no disgust of life; and is 
nothing more than decided preference of novel to 
past pursuits, of the soberness of reflection, to 
the turmoil of action ; of quietude, to scenes of 
excitement — all of which perfectly consists with 
an enlarged charity, and with the most elevated 
views of life's utilities. This can scarce be called 

retirement at all, it is but the body'^s absence, the 

5# 



50 SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 

mind is often in the world, often in society. But 
when retirement begins to generate the least 
moroseness ; and when the mind commences 
to prey on itself, the sweet waters of life soon 
become embittered; their gentle currents, though 
but little agitated by exterior causes, are much 
disturbed by those which rage within ; and it is 
not long before the savage feelings of our nature 
are displayed in bold relief! 

The transition from scenes of activity, whether 
of usefulness or the reverse, to those of inaction 
and retirement, is seldom attended by an increased 
stock of real happiness, or with a genuine meliora- 
tion of the moral and intellectual character ; and it 
is too often the case, that those who, without full 
consideration^ abandon the town, for the solitude 
of the country, greatly degenerate in both. 

Those who, after being long accustomed to the 
elegant refinements of high and polished life, seek, 
from any cause, seclusion, seldom retain that buoy- 
ancy of manners, that amiableness of feehngs, that 
generosity of opinion, and, finally, that amenity 
in all things, which had previously marked them. 
What once was liked, has now become offensive 
to them; they surrender themselves to discontent 
and peevishness; and if not, they have often con- 
tracted, insensibly and unconsciously, other habits, 
and other manners, which place them ill at ease, 
when accident or necessity brings them occasion- 
ally into life. Now, all this may, and should be 
carefully avoided; first, by never permitting our- 
selves, when in full association with life, to be 



SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 51 

seduced by its fascinations into any actions or 
habits, so essentially wrong, as to cause such 
regrets, when the sober judgments of retirement 
pass them in review; and secondly, by so stu- 
diously guarding our hearts and minds, after we 
have sought seclusion, that they shall retain, as 
jewels worthy of preservation, all the amiable 
ftraits of character we may have cherished, when 
shining as brilliant stars, in a brilliant society — 
and lastly, by occluding from our minds, as fatal 
to our peace, those vulgar and unfounded notions, 
so common with the recluse, that the world has 
been daily growing worse since we left it ! 

Were these the actuating principles of conduct 
when we have abandoned the gayeties of life, for 
the supposed charms of sohtude, how rich in sub- 
stantial enjoyments might a life of retirement then 
become ! But, when society is forsaken from mis- 
taken views of religion — from the satiety of too 
much enjoyment by ill regulated minds — from the 
disgusts consequent upon disappointed ambition — 
from a wayward and unsettled temper which fan- 
cies happiness attendant upon novelty and conti- 
nued change — or lastly, from romantically seeking 
after the charms of solitude, as they are delineated 
by the poet, or the novelist; who does not perceive 
that the result must be inevitable defeat of expec- 
tations, filling the mind with harsh views of all 
that was once familiar to them, and with but little 
power to separate, justly, the good from the evil? 

Give me, then, the man or woman who fears not 
the world, lest their morals and religion may suf- 



53 SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 

fer— commend me to those who, whilst they judi- 
ciously and conscientiously avoid temptations, have 
the moral courage to labour in the vineyard, and to 
meet and resist them — to those who view life as 
full of sweets, as well as of bitters, though infi- 
nitely blended — to those who regard it as their 
duty to cull, with unvarying care, the goods so 
bounteously lavished around us, though mixed 
with evils equally to be shunned — to those, in 
fine, who boldly use their talent^ and labour with 
it in the loorld^ — and not to those who, fearing the 
contagion of the world, would bury their talent. 

Whether, however, it has been erroneous views 
of our duty to God, to man, or to ourselves, that 
have urged a worldhng into soUtude, we generally 
find that people who live in a corner, are very apt 
to imagine every thing peculiar to themselves ! 
This contracted thought, begets selfishness, arro- 
gance, silly prejudices, and acerb tempers ; so that 
it may well be doubted, whether it be possible to 
indulge in a segregation from society, and from the 
social principle towards our species, without much 
impairment of the noble qualities of the mind, and 
the best affections of the heart. And I have ever 
been forced to think that these solitaries^ though 
they may have been once among the most elite of 
an extensive and brilliant society, had then taken 
to their bosom a serpent, which their new habits 
could scarce fail to nourish; and which, in time, 
would poison unto death, their newly sought hap- 
piness. 

Even such as from worldly motives, partially 



SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 53 

retire ; and^ in the midst of a populous city, seek 
to be exclusives, are sure to reap an abundant 
harvest of jealousies, of crude prejudices, and of 
acerb feelings, destructive of that serenity which 
springs from peace, and from generous relations 
with all around us. By this, however, I would by 
no means inculcate the impracticable notion that 
society can, or should be one ; and that the man of 
virtue, of intelligence, and of refinement, is not to 
be permitted to steer his course, if easily he may, 
from the vicious, the ignorant, and the vulgar ; 
and towards those with whom he can assimilate. 

Society truly has its various and distinctive ele- 
ments ; which, by a law of affinities, settle down, 
as unerringly, into separate classes, as do the natu- 
ral elements, by their various chemical attractions, 
into distinct bodies. All, then, that I do mean is 
that, whenever these exclusives become desirous to 
study these moral affinities with an over-nice exac- 
titude, they introduce thereby into their affections, 
an anti-social principle, that will infallibly diminish 
their happiness; and further, that all who, from 
any cause, prefer seclusion to such an indulgence 
of society as springs from the most generous feel- 
ings towards the human family, will, soon or late, 
find the amaranthine verdure of life parched up ; 
its clear skies often overcast ; and its pure and 
limpid waters mostly bitter and turbid. 

All ages, conditions, tempers, and pursuits of life 
have, indeed, their own and appropriate society ; 
and, in the autumn, or winter of life, nature, as 
well as God, admonishes us of the nearness, even 



54 SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD. 

to the door, of other scenes of far greater interest, 
as they are eternal in the heavens ! But this is no 
reason why the whole of life is so to be regarded. 
In one sense, truly, every one from the cradle to 
the grave, should live as if these extremes were 
separated by no interval of time — that is, he should 
be ever pious : but the most sublimated piety, as 
we think, is far from inculcating that the active 
exercise of our affections is to be invariably the 
same through life — a notion contradicted by all the 
analogies of nature, and of every feeling both of 
soul and body. 

The dictate of true wisdom, then, is to live every 
where and under all circumstances, as a social 
being; to enjoy society in such degrees and kinds, 
as shall banish all moroseness, all local and indi- 
vidual prejudices ; and so to live in the world as to 
reap its fruits, and to use them without stint, and 
yet without excess. Were this more generally the 
case, the gossiping portion of our species, whether 
in, or out of society, would greatly diminish ; and 
solitude would only be occasionally sought (as it 
ever should be) as a season of relaxation from 
mental or bodily excitements, and as an appro- 
priate time for that sober and calm reflection, which 
every mortal needs. But, when retirement is car- 
ried beyond this salutary limit, it tends to evil, by 
giving to the ever vigilant enemy of human hap- 
piness, far better opportunities for overwhelming 
temptation, than he ordinarily possesses over well 
regulated minds in society. 

The foregoing thoughts flitted through my mind. 



THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 55 

after remembering how much the lovely Marcia 
depreciated in solitude ! During twenty years, she 
never talked as much scandal, nor displayed half 
as much severity in her comments on men and 
things, as she has done in the year or two of her 
partial retirement from the world, and from her 
accustomed circle ! And, also, how the accom- 
plished NicANOR, once the best dressed man of his 
time, sensible and temperate withal, is no longer 
either ! for, after being rusticated only a few years, 
Nicanor suffers his hair to hang in all imaginable 
rude luxuriance, more like an Indian than any 
civilized man — has become outre in his habili- 
ments — talks an infinite deal of vulgar county- 
politics, and consumes nearly as much of those 
besotting, potent, and cheap distillations, of domes- 
tic origin, as he formerly did of those lighter, more 
sparkling, and expensive potations of foreign pro- 
curement! And such, in some degree, seems to 
be the course of deterioration^ often found among 
those who, from almost any cause, forsaking their 
accustomed sphere, would rather brood in sickly 
retirement, than live familiarly, and innocently, as 
well they might, in the genial sunshine, and under 
the occasional clouds, which the world affords. 



NOTE IV. — THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 

The moon shone into my windows with a flood 
of silvery light — all nature was hushed into pro- 
found silence — no air disturbed even the pensile 
foliage, that from many trees, and shrubs, and 



56 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 

flowers, in rich luxuriance, environed the inn, 
situate in one of nature's most beautiful valleys, 
in the ^Old Dominion' — a land, as is well known, 
of traditional hospitality, of generous feelings, 
exalted talents, and — of bad habits. 

The little wooden clock of mine host had struck 
twelve before I retired to rest, but not to sleep. 
The monotonous ticking of my watch, suspended 
near my pillow, alone reminded me that any thing 
with motion existed in nature ; all was in deep re- 
pose, save my own busy thoughts, and these were 
fast subsiding into those gentle half-slumbers that 
must soon have ended in sleep, exhausted as I then 
was with my arduous day's journey. But a tre- 
mendous shriek from the adjoining room, struck a 
momentary horror through my inmost heart. This 
was instantly followed by a most unnatural laugh-— 
then by horrid imprecations — then by cries of 
'murder,' 'fire,' 'landlord, I am dying, sinking into 
hell!' — 'Oh, I am lost, water, water, I am burning 
up !' I naturally supposed that the landlord would 
have been instantly there — but he came not ; and, 
as there was no intermission to the shocking cries 
of the unhappy being, I soon appeared at his 
chamber door, but was much astonished to find it 
locked on the outside with a padlock ! The pa- 
roxysms, growing still more intense and long-con- 
tinued, and finding no hope of sleep that night, 
already far advanced, it seemed but reasonable I 
should have an associate in my anxious vigils ; 
and at length, I resolved to seek companionship 
with my maiire dPhotel^ who had left on my mind 



THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 57 

a very favourable impression, during the half-hour 
spent with him before retiring to my chamber. 
The moon kindly aided me through a few narrow 
passages to his door, which promptly yielded to 
my tap. 

^Sir, can you solve this mystery for me ? — you 
seem to have a maniac in your house — a strange 
alliance this, of hospital and hotel — have you no 
means of silencing him, so that I may yet obtain a 
little sleep? Who, and what is he V 

'I hoped, for your sake, as well as his,' replied 
the landlord, ^he would have been silent this night ; 
but poor youth, he cannot last many nights more — 
this is the longest and severest fit I have yet known 
him to have ; it has lasted, with but few intermis- 
sions, these four days, and as many nights — he is 
a young gentleman of our neighbourhood, of edu- 
cation, wealth, and high family — has not been 
from college more than two years — his excellent, 
and wretched parents, can do nothing with him; 
he is now under my care; and all this comes, sir, 
from drink ! His disease is called mania a potu. 
As he slept so little for some nights and days, I 
thought him so much exhausted before you came, 
that he would have sunk to sleep, and not have 
disturbed you ; so I judged it better to say nothing 
to you about him.' 

The noises still continued — moanings that sick- 
ened the heart, shrieks that chilled the blood, 
laughter of no mortal sounds, oaths that demons 
alone could fashion, all followed in quick succes- 
sion, wearying the ears, and exhausting the feelings. 
6 



58 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 

^There is no relief for him,' said mine host, *I 
dread to give him what he most craves — liquor; 
it is but fuel to the fire that rages within him ; 
water he asks for, but will none of it — and medi- 
cine can only be forced upon him, which now 
seems to be cruel, as the doctor says he cannot 
live, and that all his remedies have failed.' 

^Poor human, or rather poor beastly nature,' said 
I, angrily, following my remark, a moment after, 
with a deep sigh, and more than half-ashamed, 
too, that I should feel angry, and use such a word 
towards a fellow-being in such a state of hopeless- 
ness. 'Poor, unhappy youth,' added I, 'would 
that I could bring thee one moment of rehef; 
may God, who alone knoweth the cause of thy 
great infirmity, find for thee a door of escape ! 
but, if that must not be, have mercy on thee 
beyond the grave !' 

'Oh, dear sir,' replied the landlord, 'I have 
known many persons far more wicked than he ; 
for I may truly say, he is very amiable, and chari- 
table, and sensible, when sober — nearly all his 
faults proceed from intoxication. He was to have 
been married before this time, to a lovely young 
woman hard-by ; and could Mary Summers see 
him, even now, she would break her heart with 
weeping ; for she yet tenderly loves him. He still 
wears a locket of her hair, suspended by a black 
ribbon round his neck, which he would not part 
with even for liquor ; and yet it seems he would 
coin his body and soul, too, for a dram, but not 
that locket !' 



THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 59^ 

Some hours passed in these sympathetic collo- 
quies on his melancholy condition ; but wearied 
nature made them more and more sluggish and 
forced, until, after having wrung all the changes 
on the miseries of the wretched inebriate, the vices 
and horrors of drunkenness, the mental agonies of 
his amiable parents, sisters, and brothers, and the 
deep seated and inexhaustible love of Mary Sum- 
mers, we were mutually silent. But the groans, 
and hysterical laughs, and dreadful imprecations 
from the pandemonium chamber, no way dimi- 
nished ; fortunately for us, they had lost much of 
their force on our worn out feelings, and I fell 
asleep on my chair, in the very act of forcing out 
a brief reply to an equally laconic question of my 
good-natured companion. 

I slept soundly — maybe a couple of hours — 
when, from the hum of domestic arrangements, 
the glare of broad daylight, the occasional tramp- 
ing over the uncarpeted floor of the faithful house- 
dog, and the easily recognized sounds from the 
adjustment of the breakfast furniture, on a table 
set out at a short distance from me — I awoke. At 
that instant the landlord gently descended the 
steps into the room, and whispered to me, 'friend, 
it is all over with the youth ; he has departed to 
his long home !' 

'Oh, it cannot be,' I involuntarily exclaimed — 
the big tear springing into my eyes, 'is he then 
relieved for ever from his agony, or, oh God! is 
death but the beginning of a never-ending life, — 
and, if so, is it but a prolongation, with super- 



60 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 

added horrors of this life? As the tree falls, so it 
lies ; but yet to spring up an eternal tree of the 
same nature, bearing none but its peculiar fruits ; 
there can then, be no tilling, no melioration, no 
change for the better, dreadful, overwhelming 
thought ! But, landlord, we must now indulge no 
farther in such matters.' 

We hastened to the sad chamber ; and never did 
eye rest upon a sight more heart-rending, more 
loathing. We beheld a youth of fine proportions, 
and once of manly beauty, now an emaciated corpse, 
a miserable wreck of what he had been, stretched 
upon the floor, with an empty bottle in one hand^ 
and a fragment of a chair in the other, both held, 
apparently, with the same muscular force with 
which they had been seized, perhaps but a few 
moments before the vital spark had fled. His fine 
hazel eyes were protruded from their livid sockets 
— his thin blue lips and distorted features showed 
how his vexed spirit had struggled with the grim 
monarch — his glossy brown hair hung in short 
ringlets, and were beautifully contrasted with the 
fair complexion of his exposed neck and shoulders, 
over which also hung the hair-locket of Mary 
Summers ! In hastily casting my eye over the 
room, I found that every thing within his reach 
had been br(»ken ; and his bruised and lacerated 
body also showed that the unhappy youth had 
waged war against a thousand imaginary ene- 
mies, among which were his own tender limbs. 
We promptly removed him to another chamber, 
and bestowed on his remains every attention that 



THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 61 

might, as far as possible, remove from the eye of 
affection, soon to visit him, the tokens of his 
miserable end. It was a sad scene, in a few 
hours after, to see his aged parents kissing his 
forehead and lips; his lovely sisters, with deep 
affection and involuntary horror blended, embrac- 
ing his lifeless corpse. Some of the sad tale of 
the preceding night had been related to them by 
the host, and I was urgently invited by the afflict- 
ed parents to their house, and that I should extend 
my kindness still further, by witnessing the inter- 
ment. The heart, in such a case, needs not the 
ties of blood, nor yet of acquaintance, to feel for 
the dead, or warmly to sympathize with the living ; 
and, in a short time after, I found myself domesti- 
cated in the comfortable mansion of a Virginian 
gentleman of the old school. Here, all that met 
my eye, at once told me that it had long been the 
home of an intelligent and worthy family; one of 
an extended hospitality, but whose progenitors had 
probably seen brighter and more prosperous days 
than had shone on its present owners, for some 
time past at least. 

I retired to my chamber, and slept soundly for 
some hours, till the dinner-bell sounded, and a 
pretty little coloured boy softly tapped at my door, 
and summoned me out. 

I entered the dining-room much refreshed, but 
with little appetite; a death-like silence reigned 
there, interrupted only by those occasional subdued, 
but heart-felt kindnesses which sprung from the 
newly kindled affection towards me, blended with 
6* 



b% THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 

the habitual and noble politeness which charac- 
terizes manners in the 'mother state.' 

As we approached the table, covered with the 
savoury products of the surrounding manor, the 
old gentleman placed his hands in mine : 'I fear 
my friend, we must dine to-day without the ladies, 
but George and James will accompany us, and we 
shall do better, I hope, in a few days.' Then 
pausing for a moment, he added, 'my wife and 
daughters were nearly prevailed on to join us ; 
but, poor Mary Summers has just arrived, and 
their wounded hearts are now all bleeding afresh.' 

'It is better so,' I gently replied, 'their tender 
souls need the solace of weeping, and I am happy 
they can weep.' 

'Dear Mary does not weep,' rejoined the afflicted 
father, 'we have been, in some measure, prepared 
for the sad event — not so with Mary Summers, to 
whom we never ventured to communicate all that 
took place with our afflicted son.' 

We dined in sadness ; the day and night passed 
off, and the hour of four in the afternoon of the 
following day, was appointed for the interment. 

At breakfast, all were present, except the eldest 
daughter and Mary Summers. So much had been 
said to me by the landlord, as also by the younger 
sons, whom I have named, in praise of Mary, that 
1 felt, for a moment, greatly disappointed at her 
absence ; but how soon were all my feelings the 
other way, when selfishness gave room, on a mo- 
ment's reflection, to far better sentiments. — 'Sweet 
sufferer!' said I mentally, 'I value thee greatly 



THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 63 

more for thy absence; for, surely, retirement and 
silence better harmonize with thy affliction, than 
the ruddy light of day, and the unavoidable cour- 
tesies of life.' But rousing myself from this reve- 
rie, I inquired, 4iow is Miss Summers, — how did 
she pass the night?' 

Julia, a blue-eyed girl of seventeen, as beautiful 
as a fresh May morning, garnished with dewy 
flowers, and redolent with their sweets, replied to 
my question: 'I fear, sir, she did not sleep at all; 
she neither weeps, nor speaks, but only moans 
continually. I think her heart will break !' 

At this moment, Ehza, the eldest daughter, 
rushed into the room, and exclaimed — 'Miss Sum- 
mers is very ill — I fear past hope !' 

All were in her chamber in an instant, and I 
found myself also there, a witness of the melan- 
choly scene. Dear Mary Summers was then expi- 
ring, and my first acquaintance with her was made 
in performing the sad office of closing her eyes 
for ever. 

^Oh ! thou great and unsearchable Being,' said I 
inwardly, 'how unfathomable are thy ways? She 
was young, and beautiful, and, as all say, full of 
angelic virtues, — and yet this fair and lovely crea- 
ture dies a martyr to love, for a man who aban- 
doned himself, his God, his loving parents, his 
affectionate and beautiful sisters, the luxuries of 
his home, the respect of his friends, and, finally, 
even his betrothed — all, all, for a nauseous sicken- 
ing, poisonous draught! But what can conquer 
woman's chaste love! — it is as fathomless as the 



64 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 

deep, deep sea, as high as heaven, as expansive 
and pervading as the atmosphere.' And there 
was poor Mary's lifeless body, a faithful witness 
of the truth of this rush of thought, that for a 
moment occupied me in this chamber of death 
and of agonizing grief! 

Charles' funeral was of course, postponed for a 
couple of days more, to prepare for the joint obse- 
quies of the youthful lovers. 

During this interval, I occasionally sought relief 
in the library, which occupied a very retired part 
of the venerable old building, the windows of 
which were shaded by honeysuckle and eglantine 
profusely blended, and which, as I reposed with 
my book in a deep armed chair, saluted me with 
their delicious fragrance, and excluded the garish 
day, now become almost offensive to me. 

I had not been long in the library before my eye 
rested on a musty volume entitled ^Remains of 
Sir Walter Raleigh,' which I eagerly seized, with 
the full assurance of finding therein much good 
sense — and, strange coincidence ! the first page my 
eye lit on, painted in living colours the vice of 
Drunkenness. The passages I allude to, so har- 
monized with my feelings then, and ever, that I 
copied them into my diary, and here they now are 
for the benefit of all who avail themselves of the 
privilege of looking into such portions of my 
Note Book as I have chosen to reveal ; and espe- 
cially for any one who hesitates whether he will 
become a man or a beast — whether he will enjoy 
life's blessings with wife, children, and friends, or 



THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 65 

its poisons, through absence of them all ; for any 
one, in fine, who may hesitate whether he will 
murder himself and his betrothed, or live in health 
respected by the world, and wed the object of his 
first love. But, why should I moralize when we 
have the eloquent wisdom of Sir Walter Raleigh ! 

'Take especial care,' says he, 'that you delight 
not in wine, for there never was any man that 
came to honour or preferment that loved it ; for it 
transformeth a man into a beast, decayeth health, 
poisoneth the breath, destroyeth natural heat, 
bringeth a man's stomach to an artificial burn- 
ing, deformeth the face, rotteth the teeth, and, to 
conclude, maketh a man contemptible, soon old, 
and despised of all wise and worthy men ; hated 
in thy servants, in thyself, and companions ; for it 
is a bewitching and infectious vice ; and remember 
my words, that it were better for a man to be sub- 
ject to any vice, than to it ; for all other vanities 
and sins are recovered, but a drunkard will never 
shake off the delight of beastliness ; for the longer 
it possesseth a man, the more he will dehght in it, 
and the older he groweth, the more shall he be sub- 
ject to it; for it dulleth the spirits, and destroyeth 
the body, as ivy doth the old tree, or as the worm 
that engendereth in the kernel of the nut.' 

'Take heed therefore, that such a careless canker 
pass not thy youth, nor such a beastly infection 
thy old age ; for then shall thy life be but as the life 
of a beast, and after thy death thou shalt only 
leave a shameful infamy to thy posterity, who 
shall study to forget that such an one was their 



66 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 

father. Anacharsis saith — the first draught servetk 
for healthy the second for pleasure^ the third for 
shame^ the fourth for madness ; but in youth there 
is not so nrmch as one draught permitted, for it 
putteth fire to fire, and wasteth the natural heat. 
And therefore, except thou desire to hasten thine 
end, take this for a general rule, that thou never 
add any artificial heat to thy body, by wine or 
spice, until thou find that time has decayed thy 
natural heat, and the sooner thou beginnest to 
help nature^ the sooner will she forsake thee^ and 
thou trust altogether to art? 

The day at length arrived for the interment of 
Charles and of Mary. The hair-locket rested on 
his bosom ; and the beautiful Mary Summers was 
placed in her tomb, with every memento that 
Charles had given to her of his affection. 

It was on a lovely November afternoon, in the 
year 18 — , that a long procession of weeping rela- 
tions of both the families, with their numerous 
friends and acquaintances from a populous neigh- 
bourhood, together with an equally long train of 
faithful slaves, who loved their young master and 
mistress, might have been seen slowly walking 
towards the family grave yard. 

It was situate in a deep shaded dell, about a 
quarter of a mile from the mansion. The rude but 
substantial fence that encompassed it, was entirely 
covered with vines and creepers of various sorts, 
and in each corner of the square was planted an 
evergreen, that seemed to have been there very 
many years. Though this sacred spot was the 



THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 67 

receptacle of many graves, it contained but few- 
tombstones, which were to be seen, here and there, 
raising their white tops above the luxuriant grass 
and wild flowers, distinguishing the more promi- 
nent members of an ancient family, and of its 
numerous alliances, who, in the course of nearly 
two centuries had been there deposited. 

As we entered the ample gate, the sublime and 
well known words, '/ am the resurrection and the 
life^ saith the Lord; he that believeth in me^ though 
he were dead^ yet shall he live : and whoever liveth 
and believeth in me, shall never die;'' — were uttered 
in heavenly tones by a very aged pastor, whose 
snowy locks seemed to admonish us that tempe- 
rance and serenity of mind are good securities for 
ripe old age — and that intemperance in man, and 
excessive feeling in woman, had brought the 
deceased to untimous graves. A short, but tender 
and appropriate discourse was delivered by the 
venerable old man, which bathed all eyes in tears, 
and among the rest, those of Jack Hodgson, a 
middle aged man, clothed in rags, and who, T 
observed, had approached unusually close to the 
graves, and held before his eyes the miserable 
fragments of what had once been a hat, removing 
them occasionally, and looking into the graves, 
evidently with no idle curiosity, but with a most 
intense interest ! I afterwards learned that Hodg- 
son was notorious in the neighbourhood for rare 
scholarship^ wit, obscenity^ oaths, and drunken- 
ness; and had, occasionally claimed fellowship 
with Charles on the score of some distant rela- 



b8 THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 

tionship; but mainly, of late, from the community 
of their tastes and pursuits. Charles' terrible 
death had made much impression in the neigh- 
bourhood, and had so softened the heart even of 
Jack Hodgson, that he presented himself sober 
that afternoon, and with a decency so unusual for 
him, gazed on the scene that closed for ever from 
his sight, a manifest victim to a habit that had 
brought Hodgson to his then degraded state. 

As Hodgson, in profound thought, retired from 
the grave, and was slowly following at the heel 
of the main procession, and near the head of the 
coloured people, a very aged negro, whose short 
and crisped hair had become almost snowy white, 
approached Jack, whose long, gray hair was hang- 
ing profusely over his shoulders. 

'Ah, massa Jack !' said the venerable negro, 'you 
be almost a boy along side o' me ; but your hair 
be jist as white as mine! Wad's the reason, 
massa Jack, o' that ? Shall poor nigger tell you, 
massa? — nigger drink water all his libe, work 
hard ebbery day, go to bed arly, get up arly ; but 
massa Jack Hodgson drink nothing but poison 
water — nebber work at all any day — frolic all de 
blessed night — and I tell you, massa Jack, you be 
no long for dis world. I tell you, you die in a 
few monds !' With this the old man, dropping 
Hodgson's hand, and was soon out of sight. 



A few years have passed since the events I 
have thus noted. A neat tomb now jointly records 
the loves, and the nearly synchronous deaths of 



THE YOUNG INEBRIATE. 69 

Charles and of Mary. Poor Jack Hodgson, who 
only lived the year out, lies buried in an obscure 
corner of the same grave yard, but with no slab to 
record his name, and with scarcely a mound to 
distinguish the spot desecrated by his ashes, from 
the virgin soil that surrounds it. Old Dembo, 
however, still lives to point it out, and from pre- 
sent appearances, will continue so to do for a long 
time to come. Since his warning voice to Hodg- 
son was so accurately verified by his speedy death, 
Dembo regards himself as no little of a prophet ; 
and it is fortunate, also, for some of the youths of 
the surrounding country, that they esteem him 
somewhat in the same light ; for when religion, 
morals, and education have been found to yield to 
the fascinations of the Circean bowl, the super- 
stitious threatenings from the lips of the hoary- 
headed negro have proved of more avail. 



CHAPTER II. 

V. THE SCHOOLMEN. — VI. E PLURIBUS UNUM. — VII. THE PHILO- 
SOPHICAL EATER. — VIII. A CURIOUS PROPOSITION. 

NOTE V. THE SCHOOLMEN. 

'You must really promise me to read the works 
of Si, Thomas Aquinas^'^ said an eminent Jesuit at 
Rome, as he was exhibiting to me, with infinite 
bonhomie^ the extensive and beautiful estabhsh- 
ment over which he presided, and specially calling 
my attention to the curiosa of his well arranged 
library. 'Worthy father,' replied I, 'you do me too 
much honour to bring to my poor notice the elabo- 
rate works of so distinguished a saint; for, if I 
mistake not, his learning is said to have been as 
immense, as his piety was exemplary. Was he 
not called the angel of the schools — the fifth doctor 
of the churchy and was not his tomb, after his 
canonization, the scene of many miracles V 'True, 
my dear friend,' answered the pious follower of St. 
Ignatius, 'these titles were most worthily bestowed 
upon St. Aquinas, whose writings are as eloquent 
as they are rich in wisdom, and in the soundest 
logic of the schools. He, of all others, best under- 
stood that prince of philosophers, Aristotle ; and 
hence he has ever been the admiration of popes, 



THE SCHOOLMEN. 71 

and of sovereigns : but I must not fail to~mention 
that his works are a special favourite with one of 
your own most eminent scholars and illustrious 
statesmen — the Ex-President A. — who, as I have 
heard, owes much of the discipline of his high 
reasoning powers, to the writings of this saint.' 

The profound sincerity of the good father, I was 
in no ways disposed to doubt; but I had some 
previous acquaintance with the class of writers to 
which the idolized saint belongs ; and the old 
saying, noscitur a sociis^ too promptly occurred to 
my mind, to permit the padre^s eulogy to aflfect 
me much. 

In looking around, moreover, I found nothing 
to remind me of that blessed ^march of the mind^ 
so essential to the very life-current of American 
thought. All that met the eye were relics of by- 
gone times — no representative of the age we live 
in was there to be found — every thing wore the 
monastic complexion of many past centuries, that 
had been dyed in the gloomiest superstitions, and 
marked by the crudest persecutions for opinion's 
sake. These associations rushed into my mind ; 
and, as we passed through the numerous and am- 
ple apartments and corridors, my soul involuntarily 
dwelt upon the intensely interesting, but sickening 
events, which these walls must have witnessed, 
when the disciples of the miUtary saint ruled the 
destinies of the civilized world; and when the 
degraded and fettered mind dared not to wander 
beyond a narrow and incomprehensible creed — a 
jargon of mystical and metaphysical religion, in 



72 THE SCHOOLMEN. 

which it seemed as if the rivulets of Christianity 
flowed sluggishly and fearfully, into an ocean of 
Aristotelian and Platonic refinements ! 

But the good father, as we parted, warmly shook 
my hand, and repeated his injunction respecting 
his favourite author : whilst I, with that fleeting 
and extorted sincerity, which too often yields to 
politeness, an assentation of the Hps, promised him 
con molti ringraziamenti, to be a willing, and, I 
trusted, an apt scholar of St. Thomas Aquinas! 
And so I passed the threshold, with a made up 
mind to procure some of his works, and with more 
than half a mind to study them. 

Alas ! how true is it that cesium et animum 
mutant qui trans mare currunt ; for, 1 soon found 
that the ^angelic doctor,' in his seventeen folio 
volumes,* had quite too much subtle logic, and 
recondite philosophy and metaphysics, for me to 
redeem my promise; and I have since been not 
loath to remember, withal, that although made to 
as honest a man as breathes, he was still a Jesuit; 
and that it had been made with some, perhaps 
infectious, mental reservations at the -time, that 
may save me from a mortal sin, should I content 
myself with but an occasional turning over these 
musty pages. 

But still, may it not be true, nay, is it not so, 
that the ^Summa Theologia^ at least, of this 'Eagle 
of Divines' — this canonized doctor, is replete with 
the deepest thought, and with much that is quite 

* Vide T. Aquinatis Opera omnia, 17 vols. fol. Romae, 1570 — 
aut a Nicolai, Paris, 1660, 19 vols. fol. 



THE SCHOOLMEN. 



73 



worthy the attention of our scholars and theolo- 
gians? It is admitted to be the best among his 
numerous works ; and it is probable that were the 
entire class to which it belongs, possessed of only 
the tithe of its merits, the name of Aristotle, and 
of the schoolmen, might have shone, even to this 
day, with a bright and steady light. 

The schoolmen, however, not only over-leaped 
the boundaries assigned to the researches of rea- 
son, and thus involved themselves in many idle 
controversies, and incomprehensible enigmas, but 
they also sullied the illustrious name of their mas- 
ter, and became themselves the very incarnation of 
absurdity. Their mysteries, constantly 'chyming 
into quibbles,' and clothed in the crudest fustian, 
tended as much to establish the worst models of 
composition, as they undoubtedly often did, to cor- 
rupt the purest sources of Christianity, and of legi- 
timate reasoning. Fortunately, the spell which so 
long bound the human mind to the mere autho- 
rity of names, has been entirely dissolved among 
classes, at least : men no longer think by proxy 
only — even the pope and his church are not infal- 
lible — and Aquinas^ Bauney^ Escobar ^ and Pontius^ 
with the whole fraternity of pseudo-Aristotelians, 
remain as little known, and less appreciated, than 
almost any one of the many thousand writers that 
are annually ushered into notice, by the peculiar 
facilities of our age ! 

Were Aristotle, though no longer ^a sort of 
divinity,' to rise from his grave, how delighted 

would he now be, to find himself relieved from 

7# 



74 THE SCHOOLMEN. 

the host of obnubilators who darkened his briUiant 
pages, by attempting to unravel mysteries, and 
hidden meanings in them, never dreamt of in his 
philosophy, but which are alone to be found in 
the phrenzied imaginings of his numerous mis- 
guided commentators. Surely Aristotle, and the 
'divine Plato,' would scarce have recognized their 
own works among the scoUa of Avverhoes, of 
Boetius, of Albert, of Bonaventura, or even of 
that sage 'doctor irrefragabilis' — Alexander of 
Hales, and still less of his friend Duns Scotus, 
of famous memory ! And, as I opine, it would 
not fare much better with my Roman friend's 
great favourite, Aquinas ; for the character of our 
day is so eminently practical^ that the small re- 
mains of the logical and metaphysical theology 
of the schoolmen are now, either equally 'in hands 
unholy,' or are consigned to the 'idle winds,' as 
dreamy and useless knowledge. 

It is to be feared, however, that the Utilita- 
rians, now on the ascendant, may not rest content 
with branding as the prince of learned blockheads, 
the once far famed Duns Scotus, and that the 
ultraism of our times will be more than a match 
for the whole learned fraternity of schoolmen, and 
all that emanated even from the long renowned 
Sarbonne ! I doubt not that the Utilitarians of 
Europe, nay, that some of the university scholars 
of our own country, even when first emerging, 
with academic honours, into life, would on any 
day of the week, send forth an ^admirable Crich- 
ton^ — some ^doctor resolutissimus^ to contend for 



THE SCHOOLMEN. 75 

the mastery with any of the schoolmen that may 
now remain ! Not, indeed, with weapons like unto 
theirs, but with what they would call the steam 
power of common sense ! 

I worshipfully bow to the majesty and com- 
manding power of common sense, and wish that 
all men were mainly guided by it ; but, as before 
?aid, I fear no little mischief from the ultraism of 
their devotion to this too often most impudent 
utilitarian goddess ; who, though frequently attired 
in the habiliments of modesty itself, is generally 
a radical and daring leveller, and a meddler in 
things she little understands ! 

We know that learning, without judgment, cha- 
racterized the schoolmen ; and we apprehend that 
common sense, without learning, will very soon 
characterize the utilitarians and both are ex- 
tremes, equally to be avoided. The torch which, 
like that of Omar, would consign all the learning, 
even of the schoolmen, to uncompromising destruc- 
tion, under the hope that common sense, even in 
morals, would alone prove sufficient, could scarce 
fail soon to bring us back to vandal ignorance. 

The follies, and even criminal waste of learning, 
which mark the course of scholastic philosophy, 
should nevertheless, be distinguished from the 
mines of pure ore that unquestionably are to be 
found in the writings of the middle, and after cen- 
turies; and whilst we shake off the trammels of 
idle knowledge, and the influences of mere autho- 
rity^ which, as Boyle justly observes, 4s a long 
bow, the effect of which should depend on the 



76 THE SCHOOLMEN. 

Strength of the arm which draws it,' we should 
not fail to remember, with him, the excellencies of 
sound learning, and that the 'cross-bow of reason 
has equal efficiency in the hands of the dwarf, and 
of the giant,' — but only when that reason is itself 
genuine, and without the least alloy of vanity and 
ultraism. 

Utilitarianism, therefore, without due learning, 
is itself the grossest vanity and presumption ; for 
it is equally true, that if research may be pushed 
too far, if learning may become too esoteric^ so it 
may become degraded and impotent, by that over- 
strained and affected simplicity, and by that super- 
ficial plainness which aim at bringing it down to 
the level of the meanest capacity. 

In seeking after practicalness^ we may easily 
lose the substance, and scarce attain the shadow of 
knowledge ; and this, as it seems to me, is becom- 
ing gradually, a too visible feature in the researches 
of our utilitarians ; for though our age be eminent 
for useful knowledge, mainly derived from the 
exoteric spirit of the times, there is still room to 
apprehend that this, in turn, is becoming exces- 
sive ; and that the next generation, if not the 
present, will not rest content until the whole circle 
of knowledge may be compressed in a library of a 
few hundred octavo volumes ! . The Germans, no 
doubt, will hold out the longest — but, as the fash- 
ion now leans so strongly towards condensations ^ 
double distillations^ democratic simplifications^ prac- 
tical expositions^ tables of knowledge^ outlines^ dia- 
grams^ digests^ abridgments^ syllabusses^ essays, 



THE SCHOOLMEN. 77 

coup d? ceils ^ journals^ and reviews^ with a thousand 
other short-roads, by-cuts, and smooth-paths, all of 
of them aided, moreover, by cylinder and steam 
presses, by rough types, coarse paper and wood 
cuts — we fear that, whilst our so called learning 
becomes dog cheap^ we shall find a proportionate 
diminution of true and ^ripe scholars ;' and that 
such of our young misses as graduate^ and can 
construe their Novum Testamentum, and talk 
flippantly out of Mrs. Marcet's ^Conversations on 

Chemistry' on 'Natural Philosophy' and on 

'Political Economy' — will shrink from the more 
elaborate works of Mrs. Somerville, and of Adam 
Smith ! And it may be equally feared, that our 
young men may ultimately be brought to know 
little more of the classics, than what are to be 
found in the ^Grceca Majorat and in the Latin, 
'Excerpta? — or more of Plato, of Aristotle, of Des- 
cartes, &c. than what may be gleaned from Watts' 
Logic, or from some of the chapters of Locke ; 
and^ perhaps, little more of physics, (fcc. than 
are condensely displayed in Jamieson's 'Universal 
Science,' or in that marvellous book, 'Sir Richard 
Phillips' Million of Facts,' each in one small 
volume! 

In the approaching sunny days, that I antici- 
pate, days of almost universal and co-equal know- 
ledge, we may find our statesmen and politicians 
looking down, with felicitous contempt, on the folly 
of past times, and of German lore, and of German 
drudges ! And, should there then be a few that 
still hang on the skirts of a Grotius, a Puffendorf, 



78 THE SCHOOLMEN. 

a Domat, or a Coke, they will be regarded as so 
inveterately book-mad^ as to be more worthy in- 
mates of some hotel des invalides, than of a uni- 
versity ; and as to the theologians, so far from their 
seeking occasionally for light, among even the 
best of the schoolmen, or even from the fathers 
of the church, they will have their essentials in 
translated excerpts — or possibly, in those labour- 
saving machines, the ^Penny Encyclopedias,' the 
^Saturday Magazines,' and similar works ! 

How strange is it that the world cannot avoid 
extremes ! and passing strange, that the republic of 
letters must degenerate into a vile democracy, and, 
possibly, into a still more ignoble mobocracy of 
letters ! How admirable is ihe juste milieu in every 
thing ! Extremes, though in very opposite direc- 
tions, seem ever pregnant with like results. The 
learned jargon of the schoolmen withdrew from the 
cognizance of the vulgar many, the wholesome 
truths of knowledge — poisoned its fountains— and 
degraded it with many silly refinements, clothed 
in a most barbarous language ; all of which, even 
among the elite and studious, greatly retarded the 
progress of genuine philosophy, and of sound 
morals. And so it may easily fall out with the 
utilitarians of our day, would they vainly attempt 
to reduce all knowledge to such primary elements 
that, by a species of moral homcepathic reduction 
and administration of the most recondite sciences 
and arts, all men are to become scholars, states- 
men, philosophers, and what not ! — and this, too, 
by receiving infinitesimal portions of knowledge, 



THE SCHOOLMEN. 79 

(possibly even by smelling at them,) somewhat 
after the fashion of those charlatans, who would 
cure all diseases by a materia medica, so reduced 
to its ultimate elements, as to come within the 
cubic volume of a few inches, and through invisi- 
ble portions taken into the system even by the 
olfactories ! I confess myself a sceptic in all such 
extremes ; and am as little incHned towards this 
hoped-for ubiquity, and co-equality of knowledge, 
as I should be to the restoration of those palmy 
days of the schoolmen, when a few exdusives were 
so idolized by the mass, as to think themselves 
allied aut Deum ant Diabolum ! 

It was this adulation of the supposed learning 
of the times, that rendered the schoolmen so very 
mystical. The classical purity of the Greek and 
Roman writers, ill-suited the rough materials which 
often composed their works; their authority was 
mainly derived from not being understood — and 
also from the necessary aristocracy of learning, 
when books were rare, and war was the vocation 
of the many. 

Ignorance and superstition are natural allies; 
so that the scholars of those days, exercised a pro- 
digious influence over all men and things around 
them; for we find that Aquinas, Albertus Magnus, 
Hales, Bonaventura, and others, were regarded 
with such an eye of respect, and even of awe, 
as can scarce be comprehended, at the present 
time. Pelligrino Antonio Orlandi, in his Notizie 
degli Scrittori Bollognesi^ says of Achellini, one 
of these popular scholastics, Tu accutissimo argu- 



80 THE SCHOOLMEN. 

mentore, onde ne circoli dove argumentava e non 
era conosciuto, passo in proverbio, qu'll aut Dia- 
holies y aut AchellinusP 

The whole fraternity of these Quodlibetarians^ 
(so called from the quodlibetical propositions of St. 
Thomas Aquinas,) plunged the human mind into 
such a state of learned ignorance, that the Alche- 
mists and, even the Astrologers, found it no difficult 
task to palm their nonsense on the world, for seve- 
ral centuries ; andj even when the schoolmen in 
a great degree had passed oiF, and when classical 
learning had revived, and pure letters and sound 
philosophy had gained some ascendency, these 
students of the metals, and of the starry influences, 
were found lingering on, almost down to our own 
day, leaving a mental diathesis very favourable 
to the reception of animal magnetism, and other 
similar qpprobria of learning ! — all of which, it 
must be admitted, flow from the absence of a 
general andpopular^ though superficial^ enlighten- 
ment. 

The true doctrine, then, of the whole matter 
Avould seem to be this — learning, when confined 
to a very few, degenerates into mysticism, into 
charlatanry, and into oppression of the people; 
the effects of which are farther inflamed by the 
people's superstitions : learning, on the other hand, 
when attempted to be extended equally to all, 
degenerates into a contemptible superficial ness, 
full of vanity and presumption in the many, and 
of hostility, on their part, against the few, who, 



THE SCHOOLMEN. 81 

in spite of the times, become really learned. The 
true medium, then, is to aim at nothing ultra — at 
no universal philosophising of the mass ; but so to 
enlighten them, as to protect them from the ar- 
tifices of unprincipled scholars; whilst, in turn, 
the mass shall recognize the rights and legiti- 
mate powers of the learned ; so that neither may- 
encroach, or be inclined so to do, on the pro- 
vince of the other. 

Sad, indeed, is the state of things, when the 
people are so ignorant that their scholars shall dare 
to teach them, for example, that all the mysteries 
of the Holy Trinity, and of the Incarnation, are 
to be found in the pages of Aristotle! — that the 
soul is certainly a musical pipe! these, and the 
like, being found in some of the scholia on Aris- 
totle! But, unfortunately for the argument in 
relation to the soul, it was founded on a typo, 
graphical error in the text, that had escaped the 
overlearned scholiast, in which avXo^, a flute, was 
used instead of the adjective aOXo^, immaterial! 
A like pedantry and wasteful display of curious 
knov/ledge, but in far more recent times, is seen 
in the too-learned German, who published a very 
elaborate essay to account, on physical principles, 
for a golde?i tooth, fabled to have made its appear- 
ance in the maxilary of a peasant boy! which 
proved, however, to be a hoax, only after the 
luckless author's labours of the pen had issued 
from the press! And I may also allude to the 
thrice too-learned archeologists, who recently gave 
to the world their essays to prove that certain 
8 



82 THE SCHOOLMEN. 

terra cotta urns, discovered in the vicinity of cas- 
tle GandolfOj in Italy, were certainly antediluvian! 
But, maugre many very ingenious arguments, they 
proved to be most certainly Gothic I — precisely simi- 
lar urns having been found in Germany, Prussia, 
and Sweden, under circumstances that banished 
all doubt, and also without reposing under strata 
of tufo stone — that being the fact mainly relied on 
by the antediluvians ; but which fact, was proba- 
bly also a hoax ! 

It would seem, then, that aristocracy and demo- 
cracy, in all matters of science and of learning, 
are equally evils. Learning, when plebeian or 
mobocratic, becomes as fatal to solid and enduring 
attainments, as when it is in the hands of only a 
few, in an age of surrounding darkness : for, if the 
useful and healthy plants of knowledge dwindle 
and die, amidst the noxious weeds that spring 
up from an over-refined cultivation, by the few, 
we have some cause to fear a like result, from 
so delicately and thinly turning up the soil, by 
the many, that neither the genial rays of the sun, 
nor the fructifying waters of the heavens, can 
exert their wonted influences. The whole error 
would seem to lie in, and the mischief to flow 
from, not properly distinguishing between that 
cheap, simple, and appropriate knowledge, which, 
when destined for youth, and for the people at 
large, must prove so useful — and that more ex- 
pensive and recondite learning, in which it be- 
hooves scholars, and all having authority, to be 
deeply versed. 






E PLURIBUS UNUM. 83 

To mistake the former for the latter, or to sup- 
pose that a superficial enlightenment of the whole 
mass, will compensate for the absence of a tho- 
roughly cultivated few; or, finally, to hope for 
wise laws, virtuously administered in any nation, 
where the people at large, (though seeking after 
moderate attainments for themselves) are still 
jealous of the more elevated acquirements in 
others, and would wiUingly reduce all to the 
same moderate level, is to impugn the irreversible 
laws of nature, and to go counter to the past 
experience of all ages, and of all nations. 

Suffer me, then in conclusion, once more to 
repeat that in letters^ no more than in politics^ 
should republicanism be confounded with radical- 
ism : in both they are essentially different things, 
leading to the widest possible results, and are 
equally fatal to their respective aims. Happy the 
nation, in which the people are so far enlightened, 
as to respect and love their scholars! — prosperous 
and useful are these scholars, when they carefully 
avoid ultraism^ be it that of the schoolmen of 
former days, or that of the utilitarians of the 
present ! 



NOTE VI. — E PLURIBUS UNUM. 

I KNOW not how it is, but this little aphorism 
has very often forced itself upon my attention, and 
has ever seemed to me, though few in letters and 
in words, so full of import as to be, in itself, almost 
a little volume ! I never think of it without expe- 



84 E PLURIBUS UNUM. 

riencing a rush of ideas, which fills my mind with 
many historical, moral, and patriotic reminiscences 
and feehngs. These flow from it,' not only as 
being our national motto, but also as from a foun- 
tain abundant in the lessons of wisdom, all of 
which are so easily inculcated, and so united and 
enforced by it, as to illustrate its beauty and truth; 
w^hilst, at the same time, it is rendered as it were, 
visible by the apposite symbol which accompanies 
it, of a firn^ and solid fasciculus, made by the union 
of many slender and fragile reeds ! The whole 
class, indeed, of aphorisms, of apothegms, and of 
fables, I have ever found to be a perennial source 
of intellectual and of moral gratification — they 
seem to demand immediate access, no less to the 
heart, than to the head, and give to wisdom its 
brightest and most enduring charms. 

jEsop, to whom we are indebted for this, and 
many others, was truly a philosopher, as well as 
Solomon and Bacon ; but his is the peculiar merit 
of being the sole architect of his good fortune, and 
enduring fame; for unlike them, and some other 
philosophers, he was neither a monarch, a states- 
man, nor a scholar; but an oppressed, deformed, 
poor, and sooty slave, born of obscure parents, in 
an almost unknown town, and deemed, at one 
time, so utterless worthless as to be sold for three 
half pence — his new master jocosely remarking, 
that ^for nothing he had bought nothing P 

And yet, how truly did this outward apology for 
a man distinguish, when he mildly rejoined to this 
rude sarcasm, 'a philosopher should examine the 



E PLURIBUS UNUM. 85 

mind as well as the bodi/^^ for ^sop felt the immor- 
tality that was within him; and in this he judged 
rightly, as he shortly after became superior to his 
master, though a philosopher, — was regarded by 
the Samians as an oracle — became the deliverer 
of his adopted country — was borne in triumph 
and crowned with garlands ! He disputed suc- 
cessfully with the sagest of the wise men of his 
own and of foreign lands — was courted as the 
favourite of kings, and by kings; and, at length, 
becoming too famous even for the oracular Del- 
phians, he perished a distinguished martyr of their 
jealousy ! 

But the commanding wisdom of Nature's philo- 
sopher, caused the sages of Greece deeply to mourn 
his loss, and they erected to the memory of him, 
who once had been a poor and loathsome slave, a 
splendid monument, and continued to revere his 
name, and to follow his counsels, for many ages 
after. Such, then, was the signal triumph of the 
bright manifestations of mind, over the crude and 
forbidding aspect of matter. Now whence arose a 
fame so pervading, so imperishable — what raised 
so bright a halo around a form so odious — what 
transplanted one, whom the very dogs did bark at, 
into the courtly seats of princes? — nothing but his 
great aphoristic wisdom, the riches of his discourse, 
the graphic excellence of his apologues, so well 
adapted to teach moral and political truths in the 
most impressive manner : — and such is usually the 
train of my thoughts, whenever the author of our 
laconic national motto is presented to my mind. 
8# 



86 E PLURIBUS UNUM. 

It is contained in the beautiful fable, so naively 
told, of the 'old man and his sons;' which, 
though it be but a fable, known, possibly, more 
to our youth, than to after life, I shall not crave 
pardon for here transcribing — for, could we more 
often than we do, go back to the simple lessons of 
our youthful days, we should, as I opine, find more 
of the practical wisdom of philosophers, than is 
now usually met with. 

The fable runs thus: 'An old man had many 
sons, who were often falling out with one another. 
When the father had exerted his authority, and 
used other means in order to reconcile them, and 
all to no purpose, at last he had recourse to this 
expedient : he ordered his sons to be called before 
him and a short bundle of sticks to be brought — 
and then commanded them, one by one, to try if, 
with all their might and strength, they could any 
one of them break it. They all tried, but to no pur- 
pose; for the sticks being closely and compactly 
bound up together, it was impossible for the force 
of man to do it. After this the father ordered the 
bundle to be untied, and gave a single stick to 
each of his sons, at the same time bidding him try 
to break it: which, when each did with all imagina- 
ble ease, the father addressed himself to them to 
this effect — 'O my sons, behold the power of unity ! 
For if you, in hke manner, would but keep your- 
selves strictly conjoined in the bonds of friendship, 
it would not be in the power of any mortal to hurt 
you ; but, when once the ties of brotherly atfection 
are dissolved, how soon do you fall to pieces, and 



E PLURIBUS UNUM. 87 

are liable to be violated by every injurious hand 
that assaults you !' ' 

After contrasting the foregoing fable, and its 
various applications, with an elaborate argument 
in favour of Nullification and its cognate doctrines, 
I could not but still more admire the simple and 
beautiful wisdom displayed by the Greek slave, 
and wonder that, after the lapse of nearly twenty- 
four centuries, many of our philosophers should 
have manifested so little of that practical philo- 
sophy of politics and of morals, and so little of that 
honest-hearted wisdom of a well-regulated mind, 
which the fable just quoted so clearly sets forth. 

The truth is that the lessons of the Greek fabu- 
list are replete with sound morals, rich in deep and 
practical knowledge of the human heart ; and so 
admirable in political, as well as in domestic pru- 
dence, that the volume which embraces them may 
well claim equality, at least, with any other human 
production, and assert its rank next to that of the 
Bible. How satisfying to the mind and how 
directly does the truth of this apologue go to the 
understanding and to the heart — and how tor- 
tuously, on the other hand, must the mind labour, 
when the lengthened columns of some American 
freeman and statesman, garishly and ingeniously 
set forth the elaborate argument for disunion and 
nullification ! And why should the so called patriots 
of our land, forsaking the natural and genial truths 
of -3Esop, coin their very brains for topics destruc- 
tive of so holy a maxim — one that teaches the 
salutary truth that a power almost irresistible, will 



88 E PLURIBUS UNUM. 

necessarily flow from the harmonious union of 
even the weakest elements ! — a truth revealed as 
well by the physical, as the moral world — a truth 
of which the very beasts that roam the forests, the 
dwellers of the watery deep, nay, the very animal- 
cules that float in a drop, or wage their tiny wars 
on the, to them, broad expanse of a single fig seed, 
do most constantly practise — in fine, a truth which 
men and angels, and even the great Eternal loves 
to inculcate, as the bosom of their peace — the for- 
tress of their security ! 

The same great and living principle we likewise 
find, in the account given us by Valerius Maximus, 
of Sertorius, who, when proscribed by Sylla, 
took the command of the Lusitani. His men 
being strongly inclined to give battle, at once, to 
the whole Roman forces, though greatly superior 
to them in number, their commander used every 
argument that interest, reason, and ingenuity could 
devise, to dissuade them from their rash purpose ; 
but all in vain. At length, Sertorius had recourse 
to a different species of eloquence. He ordered 
two horses to be brought before him ; at the tail of 
one of these he placed a young and vigorous sol- 
dier, and at that of the other a veteran, whose long 
experience had worn off" much of his youthful 
ardour. These persons he commanded, respec- 
tively, to pull off* the horse's tail ! The young 
soldier began by pulling with his utmost force, the 
whole at once; whilst the old veteran very deli- 
berately went to work by pulling it out, nearly hair 
by hair ! The young man wholly failed ; for what 



E PLURIBUS UNUM. 89 

he essayed to do demanded the strength of a Poly- 
phemus, as the resistance offered arose from the 
united strength of myriads, each of which was but 
a feeble opponent. The veteran, on the other 
hand, effectually executed his task, guided, as he 
was, by the motto — 'divide and conquer.' By this 
forcible appeal, made so visible, not only the power 
of union, but the essential iveakness of division, 
became so manifest, that Sertorius had the happi- 
ness soon to find that the Lusitani were convinced 
of their error, and had now become strong again, 
through the obedience that produced union. 

It cannot be doubted that were our jurists, our 
legislators, and our statesmen more generally ad- 
dicted to the study of universal ethics — were they 
to search, with eagerness, after the precepts of a 
pure and manly wisdom, in the pages of holy writ, 
and in those of ancient and modern moralists, and 
were they to add to these the thousand lessons 
taught by the history of all nations and of all ages, 
they would repose with much less confidence than 
they now do, on the thousand experiments and 
crude fancies which characterize our age and coun- 
try; and we should have less occasion to deplore 
the miseries that flow from erroneous views in 
government, laws and morals — and have much 
less of those radical and destructive doctrines, 
which, if persisted in, will as inevitably fritter 
away, and finally destroy every conservative prin- 
ciple of our government and union, as the horse's 
tail, under the gradual manipulation of the wily old 
veteran, slowly, though certainly disappeared. 



90 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 

NOTE VII. — THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 

In the preceding note the reader will find how 
great an admirer of ^sop I have ever been ; and, 
also, how justly he ranks with the sagest philoso- 
phers of any age, maugre that little boys and boy- 
ish men are so apt to estimate him lightly, from 
their horn-book acquaintance ''with his name — but 
but not with the riches of his wisdom. It seems 
like one of nature's most sportive freaks, thus to 
have enshrined in so diminutive and ill-formed a 
body, a mind as capacious and beautiful, as fancy 
and philosophy united can well imagine! for all 
that is admirable in mere human morals, orthodox 
in general politics, and salutary in domestic eco- 
nomy, may be found either strongly set forth, and 
forcibly illustrated, or, at other times, shadowed in 
the life, conversations, and writings of this extra- 
ordinary man. 

It so happened, a short time ago, that the popu- 
lar wisdom of the Greek fabulist was strongly 
shown to me, in its influence in restraining the 
gastronomic propensities of our race, in one who 
thereafter became almost proverbial for philosophi- 
cal and methodical abstemiousness. I dined, as 
it was said d'^une maniere sociable, with an Apician 
of no little note, and a few others, who loved good 
cheer. The table was slowly, gravely, methodi- 
cally, and with admirable exactitude, varied by a 
succession of dishes, that gradually became more 
and more recherche, in the ratio that the waning 
appetite demanded stronger provocatives. All was 



THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 91 

served up, with matchless concinnity, on a cloth, 
of the purest taste, and by domestics so admirably 
schooled, as not only to anticipate your every 
wish, but to suggest with peculiar and winning 
delicacy, many others that could scarce have oc- 
curred but to the most practised palates ; and this, 
too, on the principle of producing striking results 
by the strongest possible contrasts — such, for ex- 
ample, as piping hot plumb-pudding, and flinty- 
frozen ice-cream ; mustard and sweet jellies ; 
strawberries and pepper ; Roman punch with a 
sprinkling of cayenne ! 

The lord of the feast, however, as his evil 
genius on that day would have it, was obviously 
a lame duck as to appetite : for nothing that was 
present responded to his fitful cravings ; most 
things were mal-concocted — some were but tasted, 
and others churlishly rejected. 

Seated near me was a little gentleman in black, 
scarce an inch or two above five feet high, with 
a well-powdered semi-bald head, linen of perfect 
whiteness, relieved by an emerald of exquisite 
colour and water, evidently of large value, that 
had been found in a tomb of great antiquity in 
Persia, (for he proved to have been a great tra- 
veller.) 

This gentleman in black, and of small bodily 
dimensions, but of large mental capacities, was to 
our host a total stranger, having been introduced 
there somewhat in a spirit of merriment by one of 
the guests, who counted that if the Apician were 
in high appetite, as was generally the case when 



92 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 

the company was select and small, they could 
scarce fail to be greatly amused with the strange 
conflicts likely to ensue between him and this 
very learned magister of methodical eating; since 
no two persons could have been better selected to 
contrast to the life, their several and very distinct 
modes of living. The travelling gentleman, during 
the numerous courses, preserved a marvellous taci- 
turnity — ate with high relish and a natural appe- 
tite, yet, to the surprise of all, except his friend, he 
persisted in retaining, through all the services, the 
viand with which he had commenced, and with 
which the servants, understanding his humour, 
with perfect tact, instantly supplied him. In 
truth, he ate profoundly of the one dish, whilst 
the disabled Apician could of none. 

The peculiarity of the little gentleman's tenacity 
to the mutton, excited no little merriment; when, 
towards the close of the dinner, and after the 
various wines had been freely circulated, it was 
remarked that he had selected pale sherry, and 
could not be induced even to taste of any other. 
Our hero, however, had now obtained the un- 
limited use of his tongue, which he applied in a 
more customary, and, to him, with a more legiti- 
mate purpose, than as an auxiliary in eating ; and 
thereby soon approved himself a most delightful 
companion, a ripe and good scholar, and an amusing 
moralist withal. The Apician, at first chary of his 
stranger-looking guest, was not slow in perceiving, 
that his hidden treasures were not designed to be 
churlishly withheld, jocosely remarked, ^The ^^n- 



THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. . 93 

tleman of the one viand and of the one wine, I 
clearly perceive has so long made use of his mind 
as a well arranged cuisine^ where may be found 
the most varied and savory dishes, that he holds 
it unfair that one tenement should have two 
kitchens, and has therefore abandoned to us that 
which has charge of those which appertain to the 
outer man.' This jeu (Tesprit^ which was fair 
eaough for the occasion, and considering from 
whom it came, was promptly responded to by the 
small man in black, who was becoming still more 
voluble ! ^By no means,' said he, ^you mistake 
me greatly, if you suppose that I value mental 
fodder only •, we all have a body as well as mind 
to nourish, and I hold in no disparagement the 
numerous preparations that emanate from the se- 
cond cuisine to which you have alluded, and to 
which, this day, we are all so largely indebted — 
you all to the many^ and I to the ojie. It must 
be admitted,' continued he, Uhat the object of 
eating may justly be extended beyond the mere 
nourishing of the corps physique. I concede, that 
there are delights attendant on it which may be 
legitimately indulged, if the mens sana in corpore 
sano be ever kept in view. You, gentlemen, and 
I differ only as to the modus in quo: for whilst I 
acknowledge that this gratification is not limited 
to the naked object of sustaining the body, but 
may be rendered, in some degree, even intellec- 
tual, my plan differs from yours toto codo^ in this 
important particular. Were I, like you, to taste 
every thing at one sitting, I should, probably, after 
9 



94 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 

a while, have no taste at all ; but, by restricting 
myself at each meal to one dish, and to one wine, 
I enjoy all that is known to the culinary art, and 
the wines, also, of every region, and my enjoyment 
is both fresh and enduring ; hence it is, that I have 
so keenly relishefl to-day my mutton and sherry, 
with a slowly diminishing gusto — whilst you, gen- 
tlemen, have been obliged to resort to numerous 
provocatives ; and as for mine host, with all his 
science, and the amiable jeers at the oneness of my 
prandium^ he seems to have made but a slender 
repast on simples, amidst a profusion of the most 
artfully contrived delicacies !' 

Here the laugh was fairly turned on the Apician, 
who bore it with the more grace, not only as being 
the assailant, but because of certain painful twitches, 
which for some hours past had rendered him no 
little curious to know of our philosopher, how it 
was that high health, a keen relish and accurate 
taste remained so long with him, when his own 
health, appetite, and taste, were as fitful as the 
inconstant moon. 'Do tell us,' said he, 'how it is 
that you first contracted the habit — and have been 
able to persist in it — of using but one dish and one 
wine, surrounded as you have been with the world 
of good cheer you must have met during your 
long and extensive travels?' 

'You shall know the whole, with all my heart,' 
replied our travelling moralist, 'but only on con- 
dition that, when told, you'll not laugh at me 
unmercifully.' 'Do, do, the terms are freely ac- 
cepted,' exclaimed they all ; 'and we promise, 



i 



THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 95 

moreover, to be your devoted disciples, if you also 
impart to us youth, resolution, a palate, an appe- 
tite, and olfactories, even, that deal only with one 
instead of many, ha ! ha ! ha !' 'Hold, gentlemen, 
you have already broken your promise.' 'By no 
means,' said one of the company ; 'our promise, 
you remember, was only, not to laugh at you, 
after your experience had been delivered; but, 
proceed, we are all attention.' Our philosopher, 
after eyeing those around him, and adjusting his 
tortoise shell spectacles, with due solemnity thus 
redeemed his promise. 

'When a lad, at Eton, 1 was distinguished 
among my companions for two very dissimilar 
things — an almost ravenous and indiscriminate 
indulgence of my gastronomic propensities, and 
for the studious reading of all such works on 
practical morals, as were at all suited to my age. 
Among these was ^sop's fables — a special favour- 
ite with me, and to which I became so devoted, 
that the boys in derision used to call me their 
'Phrygian Slave' — 'Little Bow-legs' — 'Sooty Stut- 
terer' — 'Crossus' Favourite,' &c.; all in allusioa 
to well known facts in ^sop's history.' But 
these good-natured taunts in no way diminished 
my regard for the cherished volume. The fables 
greatly pleased, not only my young imagination, 
but my heart and judgment. I delighted to com- 
mune with beasts, birds, fishes, and reptiles, and 
to drink in the purest counsels, from the lips of 
those whose endowment with the faculty of speech 
seemed once more to bring the whole of God's 



96 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 

creation into that universal and sweet communion, 
in which fancy or history finds them when they 
were all first created. The rationality with which 
^sop has invested all nature, inanimate as well as 
animate, also brought my youthful imagination 
back to times of the earliest antiquity, and inspired 
me with an eager desire to trace not only man's 
degenerate history, but the manifestations of those 
instincts and habits of other animals, that supplied 
the place of reason after they, with man, felt the 
great shock and sad reverse that flowed from the 
sanctions of a first violated law. No other work 
of the purest fiction could have raised in my 
young and ardent mind, half the interest these 
fables did, as they seemed to invoke man to lay 
aside his false pride, and to receive, from his 
created inferiors, those oracles of wisdom he has 
so long neglected. 

'Now, gentlemen, it so happened, that after a 
montem surfeit, indulged in with some of my 
companions, who on other days, also, than Whit- 
Tuesday, worshipped the god Venter, to the ex- 
clusion of nearly all other gods, I was enduring 
the pains and penalties of our homage, when 1 
had recourse to my favourite author; and, on 
opening it, the first fable that arrested my atten- 
tion was thatof the 'Ass eating Thistles,'^ 

'This poor beast, as you all know, was loaded 
with well balanced panniers, filled to repletion with 
all sorts of dainty provisions for his master and 
his retainers. Pursuing his way, the humble ass 
encountered on the road-side a fine large thistle; 



THE PHlLOS0f>HlCAt EATER. 97 

and, not being out of appetite, he made on it a 
most delicious repast. Whilst so employed, he 
also thus philosophized : 'How many greedy 
epicures,' said he, 'would think themselves happy 
amidst such a variety of delicate viands as I now 
carry ! but, to me, this bitter, prickly thistle is far 
more savory and relishing than the most exquisite 
and sumptuous banquet.' 

'The ass, gentlemen, knew very well that the 
epicures that day, who were to dine with his 
master, would delight in the anticipation of each 
and all the viands ; but, perhaps, he did not know 
the misery of a sated and exhausted stomach — one 
that having been wearied and diseased by a too 
much and a too mixed indulgence of the goods 
of the table, ends in the wreck of mental as well 
as of bodily health. The ass, I am sure, knew 
nothing of the arthritic — nothing of the pains that 
torture Hhe toe of libertine excess^ — nothing of 
the famed six cogent arguments for the gentility, 
honour, and blessing of the gout, as given by one 
Philander Misaurus — and, finally, nothing that 
might well be said in reply to Master Misaurus. 
But, as for myself, my resolution was at once 
taken ; and, with the fable in my hand, and with 
many pains in my head and stomach, consequent 
upon my recent surfeit, I mentally vowed, theiice- 
forth and forever, to go with the ass in the sim- 
plicity — the oneness of my diet ; and that, if I 
must gormandize, it should not be physically, but 

mentally ; it should be the helluatio librorum^ sed 

9# 



98 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 

non ciborum; and to this resolve have I ever since 
most tenaciously adhered. 

'Nearly forty years have now passed, and I have 
enjoyed the most buoyant health, an unmitigated 
natural appetite, and, what may seem to you very 
strange, I am both practically and theoretically 
acquainted with the results of the culinary art, of 
nearly every region of the globe. And though I 
have dined to-day on mutton and sherry, you must 
not imagine that I have done the like through life: 
for it is quite probable, that were you to seek in the 
lives and works of famed eaters, or of those who 
record their exploits, from the times of the Gre- 
cian Methecus, Epicurus^ Glaucus, Egisippus and 
others ; in the writings of the Roman Varro^ Colu- 
ifnella^ and Apicius, or, finally, in the more modern 
Platini, Scappij Von Rumohr^ Kitchener^ the Alma- 
nac des Gourmands^ Ude^ and a host of others, you 
will scarce find one among the good livers, who 
ever ate or drank of a greater variety of exquisite 
dishes or wines, and yet with no pains of head, 
eyes, or venter, than myself — all of which was the 
happy result of a rigid avoidance of all rnixture at 
the same meal, that is of more than one viand with 
its appropriate vegetable, and one wine.' 

Here the loquacious Mr. Cornaro (for that was 
the nom d'^honneur which the Apician afterwards 
conferred on him,) would have ended his singular 
narrative ; but such was the interest, as well as 
curiosity, which our ^Esopian sage had by this 
time excited, that he was not long permitted to 
remain silent. The wonder still continued how 



THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 99 

he could possibly have become so practically fami- 
liar with all that is known in the French, German, 
Italian, and Asiatic cuisine^ consistently with his 
alleged restriction. 'There is no difficulty here 
gentlemen, that needs much explanation, to vindi- 
cate my jeoparded veracity,' replied Mr. Cornaro, 
with some mixture of good humour and gravity ; 
^much may surely have been done in this way, du- 
ring so many years, acting as I ever was on a uni- 
form system. Nature, as I before stated, had given 
me strong propensities to good cheer; art was, there- 
fore, to be invoked, after I had formed my reso- 
lution, so as to minister to this propensity as much 
of comfort as might consist with the faithful exe- 
cution of my vow ; and this was effected, by my 
enjoying the numerous goods of the table, in all 
countries, not as you have done, consociately, nor 
yet consecutively, but truly separately^ by always 
leaving an interval for each of at least twenty-four 
hours. Now, my friends, we seem to have differed 
essentially, in our practice, only in two things ; but 
these two produce all the difference. Unlike you, 
I have invariably shunned mixture^ and have also 
rigidly stopped eating as soon as there was a clear 
manifestation that hunger had subsided : for I 
never ate any thing through the medium of a pro- 
vocative, or for a mere palatial gratification.' 

Here an involuntary smile, amounting to a 
subdued laugh^ became visible on every counte- 
nance — for Mr. Cornaro was certainly an egregious 
pedant, at least in the use of language. But, he 
proceeded. 'My variety, then, arose from a daily, 



loo THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 

weekly, or monthly change of diet, or of the mode 
of preparing it ; and though I indulged in this sin- 
gleness at each meal, forty years are surely quite 
sufficient to exhaust every article to be found in 
the united bills of fare of Europe and of Asia. 
But, that I might perfect my plan, I kept with an 
exact care, what I called my Index Expurgato- 
rius — for if any of the numerous articles disagreed 
with me twice, I recorded it there, and never 
touched it more. My extensive travels, more- 
over, rather harmonized with this mode of living. 
Nature seemed to have provided for man the means 
of a rich and various repast; all things were evi- 
dently created for his use^ but it was equally clear 
to me, that the abuse consisted in the villanous 
mixtures, and in the oppressive quantities, so 
universally consumed at a single meal ; still, my 
Etonian philosophy and resolution were not so 
ultra as to occlude any thing that nature, or a 
well-devised art had provided, so long as it proved 
to me a friend. Mixture and excess were the only 
enemies with which I had to combat ; and if I 
occasionally discovered a foe among the many arti- 
cles enrolled in the bills of fare, I bade it a willing 
and eternal farewell. How much was thereby 
saved to my purse — how little I had to commune 
with the sons of Esculapius — how much time has 
been economized, and how many incommodities, 
and pains of every kind, I have avoided, need not 
now be recounted. A catalogue of ingeniously con- 
trived dishes, &c. under the heads of Potages — 
Petits horS'd'^ceuvres — Poissons — Bceuf — Entrees 



THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 101 

de Patisserie — de Volaille — de Veau — the Entre- 
mets de Legume — de Douceur — the Desserts — 
— as also the Viiis rouges — the Vins blancs les 
liqueurs^ <^c. ^c. never gave me the least alarm, 
as I partook of only a single viand from the long 
list, and on occasions of required temperance, 
dined at Very'^s, the Grand Valet, or at the Rocher 
de Cancale^ in great comfort, on a Charlotte russe^ 
(but never of course on an omelette sonffle^ with a 
glass of iced water, I found that, even after a {qvt 
years, every article of every bill of fare, was per- 
fectly familiar to me. 

'I cast my eye over all animated nature, and 
found MAN to be the only cooking animal ! Cook- 
ing, then, was evidently no deflexion from his 
nature, but of the very ordination of Him by 
whom he was created. Animals cook not, merely 
because they cannot ; man cooks, as prompted 
thereto by reason and by knowledge ; and even 
brute beasts are sometimes greatly benefitted in 
their food, by man's acquaintance with the chemi- 
cal and other results of the culinary art. 

^You see, then, gentlemen, that I am far from 
joining in a proscription against this useful science 
of cooking; which, if it hath killed its hundreds, 
it has also blessed and prolonged the lives of its 
millions. And though it was, perhaps, an exag- 
gerated fancy in Voltaire to say, in his accustomed 
general way, qu^un cuisinier est un mortal divin, it 
is still a fact that the statistics of France show a 
manifest diminution of disease, and a consequent 
prolongation of human life, since the art of cook- 



102 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 

ing has assumed the form of a science ; and I am 
quite satisfied that the preparation of dishes a la 
Frangaise^ ou ti V Italian^ is more conducive to both 
resuhs, than the raw and savage mode so usual in 
my native land. I have a particular fondness for 
the French entremet of aspergis aux petitis pois^ 
but have never since my return to England, now a 
full half year, been able, even by many threats 
and large bribery, to prevail on any cook to serve 
them more than half-boiled. This you know was 
a Roman fashion to a proverb — asparago citius — 
and Augustus used to say, when he desired to 
have his commands quickly executed, 'do it as 
speedily as asparagus boils.' But though it be 
thus ancient and imperial, it is a cruel fashion 
and no where more savagely practised than in 
England. 

'Your vegetables are only scalded, your viands 
are often but scorched, and your game comes to 
the table, more cooked by the sceptic process of 
nature, than by the fires of the cuisine. The gra- 
vamen^ then, of which alone I have to complain, 
is not of cookery, in most of its modern forms, 
(and especially out of England,) but simply of the 
uses, or rather abuses, made of its luxurious results. 
The cook has generally performed his duty, and 
produced almost invariably, things edible and 
highly salutary ; but his employers have rendered 
them almost poisonous, by blending so many of 
them at a single meal, and by an indulgence with- 
out stint, long after appetite has ceased, and after 
the powers of digestion have nearly terminated. 



THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 103 

^The ancient cooks, you remember, were at one 
time the vilest of slaves ; but, after a while, they 
rose in high estimation; and, leaving their kitchens, 
they came with triumph into the schools, among 
the philosophers. Their vile vocation became an 
honoured art, and lastly, even a lauded science: — 
for it is said that the Syracusian Archestratus^ after 
travelling over the world in search of good cheer, 
composed an epic poem to illustrate its heroes; and 
that even Aristotle did not think the ars culinaria 
unworthy of his philosophic pen. 

*I speak not here in commendation of that un- 
meaning luxury, and expensive gluttony, which 
marked the career of a Vitellius, a Heliogabalus, a 
Geta, a LucuUus, a Claudius, or a Gallienus. Mag- 
nificence, taste, and science, when carried to such 
excesses, lose all their charms, and sink into a 
degrading and disgusting fatuity. You remem- 
ber, for instance, the emperor Geta was so refined 
an epicure, and had such an insatiate maw, withal, 
that his numerous dishes were brought in by divi- 
sions, and each alphabetically ; and that his feed- 
ing would sometimes endure several days without 
intermission. We are likewise told that the em- 
peror ViteUius was entertained, by his brother 
Lucius, with many thousand rare and expensive 
fishes, and with no less than seven thousand 
choice birds, each of peculiar value; and further, 
that luxury had attained such a mad height among 
the Romans, that the palate seemed to derive enjoy* 
ment from the combined consideration of the vast 
expense and shocking cruelties with which the 



104 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. ^ 

articles served up were procured. Hence was it, 
that the combs of living cocks, in vast numbers, 
were cut from their heads to form a single dish ; 
the brains of thousands of peacocks occasioned 
vast slaughter, to satisfy the ideal taste of a beastly- 
monarch ; rare singing and talking birds, each of 
no small value, were collected on a large platter, 
and were then valued in what would now amount 
to nearly five thousand pounds of our money; 
lampreys were said to be rendered inexpressibly 
delicious, by being fed on human flesh ; and 
even costly pearls were dissolved to swell up the 
expense of their bill of fare, and to make the com- 
bination of expense with cruelty, as perfect as 
possible. 

'Well might the splendid Lucullus, in such an 
age, designate each of the various eating saloons 
of his palace, by the name of some deity, so that 
the steward of his banquets might know, at once, 
the intended expense and magnificence of a ccena^ 
by his master's merely stating the name of the 
saloon in which he would have it take place. 
Well might the cuisiniers of those days collect, 
at untold prices, the crabs of Chios, the trouts of 
Pessinuntium, the cranes of Melos, the peacocks 
of Samos, the turkeys of Phrygia, the kids of Am- 
bracia, the oysters of Tarento, and even of distant 
Albion, where we now happily are, and especially 
after the Trajan Apicius had discovered the im- 
portant art of keeping them almost indefinitely 
fresh. Well might they do all this, and likewise 
go to Egypt for dates, to Iberia for chestnuts, and 



THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 105 

also expend, as the Tiberian Apicius is said to 
have done, no less than a million sterling on his 
kitchen : for it is manifest, that the deity of the 
then world, was the god of every vitiated appetite 
of body and of soul ; and that the Jupiter tonans 
should have taken the name of Jupiter edans ! 

^Very different, however, is the luxury and the 
refined aims of the culinary art of the present age ; 
which, though sometimes carried to excess, and 
often abused by the mixtures and quantities in 
which we indulge, and which I have so carefully 
guarded against, is an art entitled to great com- 
mendation. The luxury of the ancients, often 
brutal, unmeaning, and foolishly extravagant, is 
widely removed from ours, which is far more sub- 
dued in every particular — has the utilities of life 
much more in view — is far more scientific and 
salutary ; — and, were every one to adopt the plan 
suggested to me by my Montem surfeit, aided by 
the ^sopian fable I have mentioned, I see no rea- 
son to fear the decline of the cuUnary art. The 
entire system of European and of Asiatic cookery 
might remain, and become still more refined and 
improved : for my long experience has resulted in 
proscribing but few dishes, and still fewer among 
the wines and liqueurs; so that, after all, my 
Index Expurgatorious contains but a meagre list. 

'I have sometimes thought, that the national 
cookery ajfforded me no little insight, (jl priori^ into 
the national character of a people ! — thus, in the 
fantastic and gossamer features of nearly all that is 
ushered from the French cuisine^ in the various 
10 



106 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 

colours, distillations, reductions, and refinements 
of tlieir entrees^ their entremets de legumes^ et de 
douceur^ and of their desserts^ we find mirrored 
forth their ardent fancy — their devotion to things 
of taste and parade — their artificial worldly policy 
and speciousness — their indomitable vanity ; and, 
above all, their want of genuine sentiment. So, 
likewise, in the substantial, honest, and perfectly 
undisguised dishes, so usual among the Germans, 
we perceive their national phlegm, their characteris- 
tic openness, their laborious habits, their indiife- 
rence to mere physical refinements, and their per- 
vading economy. So, in our own country, the 
simple boil, and still more primitive roast, and the 
almost total absence of all greasy appliances, 
suit the plain and unvarnished character of John 
Bull ; and, finally, the hominy, roasting-ears, has- 
ty-pudding, treacle, wild-game, succotash, and a 
hundred others, among the Americans, indicate 
their Indian associations — whilst their German, 
French, British, and various other dishes, mani- 
fest their extremely miscellaneous origin; and that 
the people have as little of national cookery as of 
national character. I admit, that in all nations 
the elite Avill depart from the general rule, and 
that gourmands may every where be found, seek- 
ing after the culinary chef d'^oeuvres of other lands. 
And the same remark, as to the influence of diet 
on character, applies to individuals — the emperor 
Charles V. not being much out of the way, when 
he said, 'I'll tell you what a man thinks^ if you'll 
tell me what he eats.'* 



THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 107 

*In the use of wines, I have sometimes expe- 
rienced a little difficulty, from the well-known 
practice among most nations, of introducing diffe- 
rent wines, supposed to be peculiarly adapted to 
the several courses. In France, you know, the 
vin ordinaire^ with its copious admixture of water, 
is made to flourish for a time, at their entertain- 
ments. The vins d'^entremets prevail during the 
intervals between the courses ; and it is often the 
case, that certain dishes demand the presence of 
particular wines. If, therefore, the chablis must 
accompany oysters, and cillery the roasts; if the 
liqueurs^ or the highly dry wines cannot be taken 
out of their course, I had to make my selection, 
at each entertainment, of the wine destined for a 
known course, and to abstain, before and after, 
from all others. 

^I should have experienced, however, insur- 
mountable obstacles in all this, had the Athenian 
practice prevailed of drinking toasts, which de- 
manded not only a bumper, but that the cup 
should be drained, in each case, of its contents ; 
and to see this honestly done, officers were in at- 
tendance, clothed with the high powers of seeing 
that each man did his duty ! No such amiably 
intended compulsion, thanks to Bacchus, ever visit- 
ed me ; but I have always been permitted to say, 
or nod my ^bene mihi bene tibi^ with but a poorly 
replenished glass, and that, too, but only tasted. 

'I have now, gentlemen, in compliance with 
your wishes, stated, perhaps, too fully, my views 
of the mode of rationally enjoying all the good 



108 THE PHILOSOPHICAL EATER. 

cheer, which a true Apician ought to covet: for 
the sum of my gratification must have been quite 
equal to that of any one of yours ; and, moreover, 
I never expended, since I left Eton, a single pound 
on all the Esculapians of my own and of other 
lands ; whereas, even among the friends and ac- 
quaintances, I have made in various parts of the 
world, I may truly say, with the Roman proverb, 
plus gula quam gladiusJ 

Here Mr. Cornaro removed his spectacles, called 
for a glass of water — and was silent. 

^I confess,' said our host, 'you have argued your 
point with great ingenuity and ability ; and if you 
could but subtract forty years from the sum I now 
count, and place me a youth at Eton school, and 
give me iEsop's fables for my daily study, and 
surfeit me with a Montem frolic — then, all that you 
have so charmingly detailed would scarce fail to 
make me a practical convert to your unquestiona- 
bly sound philosophy: but, as it is, I greatly 
fear that, for the residue of my hfe, I shall be 
obliged to say, as king Agrippa said unto Paul, 
almost thou persuadest 7ne to be thy disciple.' 

With this, our company bade adieu to their 
host — all seemingly much pleased with so curious 
a specimen of an ancient philosopher, who, like 
the wandering Jew, was flourishing in modern 
times ! 



A CURIOUS PROPOSITION. 109 

NOTE VIII. A CURIOUS PROPOSITION. 

I KNOW not where to refer for the exact terms of 
a proposition, said to have been made by a sage to 
a worldling, in illustration of the extreme folly of 
those who jeopard the riches of the life to come, 
for any pleasures the present one can afford ; but I 
remember, it struck me with great force ; and was 
somewhat after this fashion : — Suppose the whole 
earth were a mass of distinct globules of sand, and 
that every globule represented a thousand years, 
and that during the aggregate of the years, so 
represented by the entire mass, you were permitted 
to enjoy, not merely such an unalloyed happiness 
as you could contrive, or even imagine, but such 
as with the aid of the gods could be devised ! 
would you at once seal a bond with Deity, to 
relinquish all of even your present feeble hopes of 
eternal happiness thereafter ^ for the certain enjoy- 
ment of the myriads of years that this world of 
globules would thus afford you? — to which, as the 
story goes, the unhesitating reply to the sage 
was — No. 

And this, probably, would be the response of 
almost any mind, capable of the least reflection. 
Why then, it may well be asked, does man so 
constantly jeopard his eternal happiness, for the 
uncertain enjoyment of the extremely miscella- 
neous, and ever alloyed pleasures, he can snatch 
from time, during the few years allotted to him in 
this world? Strange infatuation ! wonderful incon- 
sistency! that a rational mind should, in theory , 



110 A CURIOUS PROPOSITION. 

earnestly reject such a proposition, and yet, in 
practice^ daily commit a folly infinitely greater 
than would have been involved in its acceptance. 
The truth is that man, however correct in his 
theoretical views, seldom acts on any very defined 
principle (if he acts at all) in opposition to his 
passions. He is eminently a creature of circum- 
stances — of impulses — and is, in many things, a 
mere bundle of habits ! He seeks for present 
enjoyment, and seldom graduates his conduct in 
reference to a remote future. 

The foregoing proposition reminds me of a perti- 
nent, and beautiful illustration of the same matter, 
found in that meritorious and curious old work, 
entitled ^Gesta Romanorum,' printed by Wynkyn 
de Worde, in the sixteenth century; which I ex- 
tract, with some alteration, however, of the ortho- 
graphy. 

In the fifth of the Gesta, or stories of these 
Roman emperors, we find the following : 

'Sometime their reigned in the city of Rome, 
a mighty emperor, and wise, named Frederick, 
which had only one son, whom he loved much. 
This emperor, when he lay in the point of death, 
called unto him his son, and said, dear son, I 
have a ball of gold, which I give thee, upon my 
blessing, that thou anon, after my death, shall give 
it to the most fool that thou mayest find ! Then 
said his son, my lord, without doubt, thy will 
shall be fulfilled. Anon, this young lord, after 
the death of his father, went and sought in many 
realms, and found many fools richless; and be- 



A CURIOUS PROPOSITION. Ill 

cause he would satisfy his father's will, he labour- 
ed further, till he came into a realm, where the 
law was such, that every year a new king should 
be chosen there, and this king had only the guiding 
of that realm but to a year's end, and shall then be 
deposed and put into exile in an island, where 
he should wretchedly finish his life! When the 
emperor's son came into this realm, the new king 
was chosen with great honour; and all manner of 
minstrelsy went afore him, and brought him with 
great reverence and worship unto his regal seat: 
and when the emperor's son saw that, he came 
unto him, and saluted him reverently, and said, — 
my lord, lo I give thee this ball of gold, on my 
father's behalf. Then said the king, I pray thee 
tell me the cause why thou givest me this ball? 
Then answered the young lord, and said thus: 
My father charged me, O king, in his death Ibed, 
under pain of his blessing, that I should give this 
ball to the most fool that I could find ; wherefore I 
have sought many realms, and have found many 
fools, — nevertheless, a more fool than thou art, 
found I never; and therefore this is the reason. 
It is not unknown to thee that thou shalt reign 
but a year, and at the year's end, that thou shalt 
be exiled into such a place, where thou shalt die a 
mischievous death ; — wherefore I hold thee for the 
most fool that ever I found, that, for the lordship 
of a year^ thou wouldst so wilfully lease thyself! 
and therefore, before all others, I have given thee 
this ball of gold. 
'Then said the king, without doubt, thou sayeth 



112 A CURIOUS PROPOSITION. 

the truth ; and, therefore, when I am in full power 
of this realm, I shall send before me great treasure 
and riches, wherewith I may live, and relieve 
myself from mischievous death, when that I shall 
be exiled and put down. Wherefore, at the year's 
end, he was exiled, and lived there in peace, upon 
such goods as he had sent before ; and he died 

afterwards a good death ! Dear friends, this 

Emperor is the Father of Heaven.' 

And the story might, perhaps, have added that 
this son was Jesus Christ, and the foolish king, 
who afterwards became wise, and followed the 
sage admonition given him, is every son of man 
who takes counsel from the gospel, and who, in 
disregard of the temporary fascinations of the 
world, lays up his treasures in heaven. Well 
would it be, if every one, when so admonished, 
and having, perhaps, an equally temporary lease 
of Ufe, that this king had of his realm, would 
do as he did — prepare, now, for a never-ending 
fee-simple of bliss, beyond the grave. 



CHAPTER III. 

IX. ST. PETER'S CHAIR AT ROME. — X. WAS ST. PETER EVER 
AT ROME? — XI. DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. — 
XII. TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 

NOTE IX. — ST. Peter's chair at romu. 

Lady Morgan has given great oflFence to the 
Romanists, and not without cause, as I admit, by 
a passage in her 'Italy,' respecting the genuineness 
of this far-famed relic of the Vatican church. The 
matter and the manner of the attack are certainly 
far from admirable, and, as it seems to me, are bar- 
ren of all courtesy — dogmatical, flippant, false, and 
wholly uncalled for. The short narrative given 
by her is, in substance, that the French, during 
their occupation of the holy city, forcibly removed 
the magnificent bronze casement that for some 
centuries has enshrined from the public gaze the 
venerable chair, brought it from darkness and cob- 
webs into full light, and then made the important 
discovery that it bore a nearly obliterated Arabic 
inscription, containing the well known Mahometan 
confession of faith — 'There is but one God, and 
Mahomet is his prophet !' — and, moreover, that this 
chair came to the church among the spoils of the 
crusaders, when the times were too ignorant to 



114 ST. Peter's chair at rome. 

decypher the inscription — and finally, that the 
truth being since suppressed by the church, the 
chair has maintained its wonted honours — the peo- 
ple been deceived — and none but the unhallowed 
and audacious at Rome, either know the fact, or 
venture on repeating it! 

In this account we find a discourteous spirit; it 
is likewise dogmatical, because it contains mere 
assertion, without even the feeblest attempt at 
argument, or authority — it is flippant and false, as 
it reposes on an idle tale, so extremely silly on its 
face, as to make no impression on any reflecting 
mind; and lastly, it was wholly gratuitous, and 
inconsequential, as this relic, perhaps, of all others 
known to the catholic church, is the least ob- 
noxious to censure, is among the best authenti- 
cated, (at least as being a chair of the times of the 
Saint) and finally, because it is one, which if ever 
seen by Lady Morgan, could have been but super- 
ficially, and which, as is equally probable, had 
never been more critically examined by any one 
with whom she was likely to have confidentially 
communed. How strange is it that protestant zeal, 
and more often an unmeaning spirit of infidelity as 
to the genuineness of ancient remains, prompts us 
to disregard the laws of evidence, the philosophy 
of probabilities, and thus recklessly to close our 
mental vision against the light of truth ! It is, 
indeed, an undeniable fact that the Roman church 
has very many false relics, and some of them so 
shamefully absurd, as to raise, in thin and undis- 
criminating minds, doubts as to them all. But it 



ST. Peter's chair at rome. 115 

is the province of wisdom to have caution without 
scepticism, liberality without credulity, and calm- 
ness in the examination and weighing of evidences 
in every separate case, without confounding them 
with others ; and this, as we think, has not been 
always done by the opponents of catholic beliefs, 
and certainly not by Lady Morgan, in the present 
instance; for she has evidently applied some 
extremely vague accounts respecting the but little 
esteemed, and only vulgarly so called chair of St. 
Peter at Venice, to the greatly valued one of Rome, 
which has been long accredited as such by men of 
distinguished learning and piety, and the authen- 
ticity of which, during very many centuries, is as 
well maintained, historically and traditionally as 
that of any one of the various relics to be found in 
most of the English cathedrals and castles, and 
concerning which we hear of few, if any doubts, 
and of no illiberal and ill-natured attacks. 

The chair, in question, may not be the veritable 
one in which St. Peter reposed; but this has never 
been disproved, and it has tradition to that eifect 
on its side — it may, also, not be a Roman curule 
chair, but it is certainly not a Mahometan monu- 
ment, nor has it any Arabic, or other inscription 
that proves the falsity of its claims — it may never 
have been within the walls of the Senator Pudens' 
house, nor have been presented by him to the 
Saint, but it is still, in every respect, just such a 
chair as might have been in Rome at that time, 
and most worthy of being thus presented to the 
distinguished apostle, if he were ever there to 



116 ST. Peter's chair at rome. 

receive it at the hands of his alleged host and pro- 
selyte; and it differs, moreover, from the known 
curule chairs, only as a variety may deviate from 
one of its species. 

Rome has numerous relics still more ancient 
than the era imputed to this chair, and most of 
them are even more feebly verified; and yet in 
regard to these, antiquarians presume to speak 
with no little confidence and display of learning; 
whereas this chair of the pope's, to a protestant 
mind, seems to be at once severed from all anti- 
quarian research, and is pronounced, by mere. 
4ookers-on in Venice,' either as a comparatively 
modern fabric, or as one of any other region, or 
origin, than Roman ! And why all this ? — merely, 
forsooth, because some people vaguely and idly 
imagine that if St. Peter ever sat in this famous 
chair, it must have been in Rome, if in Rome, then 
as Pope, and if as pope, then as the successor of 
Christ and the apostles, and if such, then that the 
catholic church is the one, and only one to which 
was said, ^Tu es Petrus^ et super hanc petram 
adiftcabo Ecclesiam^ et tibi dabo claves regni coelo- 
rum P Now, the whole of this, as it seemeth to 
me, is verily such a congeries of non sequiturs^ as 
Lady Morgan, and all who so think, should deeply 
blush at. Hath not Luther's great Reformation a 
surer tasis, a more enduring fulcrum to rest upon, 
than the negation of such a consecutive series of 
idle inferences? Would even the clearest proofs 
that this beautiful relic of ancient art, with its fine 
embellishments of ivory and gold, had never been 



ST. Peter's chair at rome. 117 

seen by the great ^apostle of the circumcision,' and 
that the whole tradition was a ^pious fraud' of far 
more recent days, abate one jot or tittle the claims 
of popery, whatever they may be ? 1 think not. 
Does protestantism suffer an iota of loss, on the 
other hand, by the clearest proofs, not only that 
this was his chair, but that he long resided at 
Rome, and there suffered martyrdom? Clearly 
not, — all this, and all the other particulars respect- 
ing the chair, might well be conceded, and yet St. 
Peter never have been pope of Rome, never have 
been even bishop thereof; and finally, never have 
claimed, nor exercised any official superiority over 
the other apostles. The laboured researches, then, 
of the Romanists to prove the genuineness of this 
chair, and the testy jealousy of protestants in 
respect to it, and particularly as to the point of 
the saint's long residence, and martyrdom at 
Rome, seem to me to be what lawyers would 
denominate an immaterial issue, or a departure in 
the pleadings, whenever these researches, on either 
side, are in any degree connected with the ques- 
tion — ^which is the true church?' 
j Dr. Wiseman, of the Roman University, how- 

!| ever, in his short but eloquent reply to Lady Mor- 
gan's slander, shows himself a wiser catholic than 
many of his brethren, who have written on the 
claims of the chair ; for his brief argument is not 
that of an elaborate antiquarian, but of an honest 
I and zealous mind in pursuit of truth, indignantly 
refuting, in a common sense way, a fabulous narra- 
11 



118 ST, Peter's chair at rome. 

tive of an accomplished popular writer, who, in 
connection with her subject, Had charged the whole 
body of the catholic clergy with perpetuating a 
gross deception, after a clear discovery of the spu- 
riousness of the relic— a charge in no degree sus- 
tained in the present instance, whatever may be 
the fact in respect to some others, not yet repu- 
diated, though it be scarce possible, at least for a 
protestant mind, to conceive a credulity in regard 
to them so gross and benighted, as still to retain 
them in the canon of their relics! 

But, to revert for a moment, to the champions, 
and to the repudiators of this chair — what do the 
dissertations of Fabei, of Bonnani^ of Wiseman^ 
and others, on the one side, and of VelcinuSy of 
Calvin, of Sebastian, of Owen, and others on the 
other, either prove, or disprove? Surely, little 
more than the great antiquity of the chair in ques- 
tion—its long connection with the name of St. 
Peter — that in the primitive church it was custo- 
mary for teachers of distinction to occupy, by way 
of eminence, a sedes — cathedra — throne or chair ^ 
and which, in after times, was often carefully pre- 
served as an interesting relic — that Eusebius men- 
tions the chair of St. James, as being extant in his 
time — that St, Mark'^s chair was long preserved 
with a like veneration at Alexandria — that Tertul- 
lian speaks in still more general terms, of the S'ery 
chairs of the apostles as yet in their places' — that 
St. Optatus, in the fourth century, alluded to the 
chair of St. Peter, as one that Macrobius of Rome 
had never occupied — that Ennodius of Pavia, 



I 



ST. Peter's chair at rome. 119 

early in the sixth century, when lamenting the 
state of the church, adverts to the fact that the 
chair is now despised, and afterwards speaks of 
the portable chair of the apostle's confession (or 
tomb,) — all of which combined would seem to 
bring this chair somewhat authentically as imputed 
to St. Peter, as far back as to a. d. 503 — but alas ! 
here all tradition^ even, ends. Yet, as the matter 
thus far stands, the claims of the chair are fully 
redeemed from the aspersions cast upon it by Lady 
Morgan and others. Now, though in the second 
place, her ladyship, and other cognate writers 
have sufficiently established that the Romanists ' 
have failed in obtaining certain proof that this 
chair ever was St, Peter's, it ought to be remem- 
bered that the Romanists themselves have spared 
these very writers the necessity of establishing this 
fact — since all Catholics have unhesitatingly ad- 
mitted the absence of any such clear proof that it 
ever was his; and have only reposed on the proba- 
bilities which they deduced from the facts I have 
just stated. 

The whole subject is, perhaps, of little moment, 
in the abstract ; and would not have been dwelt on, 
had not many Catholics, on the one hand, sup- 
posed that its genuineness forms an important link 
in the chain of their proofs of apostolic supremacy ! 
and had not Protestants, on the other, been weak 
enough to regard it somewhat in the same light ! 
Entertaining, as I do, quite a different opinion, and 
believing that neither church would gain or lose 
by the decision of the controversy either way, I am 



120 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME? 

disposed to treat this relic as I would those of Shaks- 
peare at Stratford — those of the redoubtable Guy, 
at Warwick castle — those of Luther, of Wickliflf, 
of some of the early kings of England, or of Scot- 
land — or, in fine, any other remains of unrecorded 
times, that may have come down to us attended by 
little of clear proof — but which are still sustained 
by a long tradition, and by those probabilities 
which arise out of the laws of circumstantial evi- 
dence judiciously applied. And, with this, I now 
take my leave of the long venerated chair en- 
sconced in the Tribune of St. Peter's basilika at 
Rome. 



NOTE X. ^WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME? 

This question is gravely put by many, and 
variously answered, as if it were one on which 
the fate of popery or of protestantism is to be 
ultimately decided ! 

Yes, say the catholics — St. Peter first arrived 
there in the second year of the Emperor Claudius, 
and resided in the house of the Senator Pudens 
for seven years, the saint having previously con- 
verted him to the new faith, together with his 
two daughters, Pudentiana and Prassade, and his 
two sons, Novatus and Timothy. In consequence 
of an edict against the Jews, the saint retired from 
Rome, leaving with his host a portrait of our 
Saviour, now preserved in the church of St. 
Prassade, which was erected in honour of the 
senator's daughter! During St. Peter's absence 



WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 121 

from the imperial city, he assisted St. Mark in 
the preparation of his gospel, but returned, with 
St. Paul to Rome, about the thirty-second year 
after the crucifixion, and again took up his resi- 
dence with the senator, who then presented to 
him the splendid chair of ivory and gold, (the 
subject of my previous note,) and which is now 
preserved in the Tribune of St. Peter's church, 
enshrined in a magnificent bronze case, and is 
annually exhibited, on the eighteenth of January, 
to the eager gaze of an admiring multitude! 

The Romanists further say that in the year 
164, the church of St. Pudentiana was erected 
in honour of the Senator Pudens' other daughter, 
on the very spot where his house had stood, and 
that the chapel to the right of the choir, now 
contains the altar on which St. Peter used to 
celebrate the mass — some of the books say, 'dove 
credesi che S. Pietro celebrava la massa.' This 
church also contains the well in which Saint 
Pudentiana cast the blood of three thousand mar- 
tyrs, whose remains are there deposited, and to 
which a daily visit through life, entitles those 
making it to an indulgence of three thousand 
years, from the pains of purgatory, and a remis- 
sion of a moiety of their sins ! 

According to these Roman authorities, St. Peter 
resided in Rome twenty-five years, enduring many 
alternations of prosperity and adversity. He was 
confined in the Tullian,or Mamertine prison, which 
still remains, though erected by Ancus Martius; 
and the pillar to which the saint was fastened, as 
11* 



122 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 

also the small spring or well of water with which 
he was miraculously supplied for the baptism of 
the two gaolers, and his forty- seven companions 
are now likewise to be seen ! 

It is farther asserted that St. Peter suifered 
martyrdom by crucifixion, a. d. 67 — in the twelfth 
year of the Emperor Nero, on the Janiculum, now 
called the Golden Hill, or Montorio, in sacred allu- 
sion, as some say, to the event — or, more probably, 
as others supposed, from the yellow or gold-like 
sand of the hill. Near the place of the crucifixion, 
Constantino the Great erected the church of S. 
Pietro in Montrorio ; and on the precise spot 
was erected by Ferdinand IV. of Spain, a small 
temple of singular beauty, consisting of a rotunda 
sustained by sixteen doric columns, after the de- 
sign of Bramante, which is still in perfect pre- 
servation. Although the precise spot of the saint's 
crucifixion has been questioned by some catholics, 
(maugre the erection of the aforesaid church and 
temple,) yet they all agree that it certainly took 
place near the Yatican, and consequently near 
to where tradition has assigned it, and where 
Constantino founded the church, and where Fer- 
dinand established the temple, now so much ad- 
mired by travellers. 

The place of the saint's interment^ according 
to Eusebius, has always been pointed out by tradi- 
tion, as on the Vatican hill; and further accounts 
state it to have been in a cemetery, over which 
Pope Anacletus, early in the second century, 
erected a chapel, and enclosed the body in a 



i 



WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME? 123 

marble urn, — that this chapel and urn were super- 
seded by the old, and subsequently by the present 
church, or rather basilika of St. Peter, (as being 
a sacred temple erected in honour of a martyr) 
and finally, that the remains, then hermetically 
enshrined in brass and copper, have never since 
been seen, but the holy spot is beneath the present 
high altar, adjoining to which is the Confessional 
of the Shrine, the descent to which is by a double 
flight of steps, surrounded by more than a hundred 
lamps, burning in perpetual honour of the sacred 
spot. 

St. Peter, according to Eusebius, went to Rome 
to oppose the pernicious tenets of Simon Magus, 
whose preaching is said greatly to have pleased 
Nero, especially after it had been given out that 
Magus would fly to heaven in the emperor's pre- 
sence ; and he was seen to fly assisted by demons, 
until St. Peter brought him so rapidly to the earth 
as to fracture both his legs, in consequence of 
which he soon after died ! In addition to all these 
proofs of St. Peter's residence at Rome, the Catho- 
lics also refer to the saints' miraculous liberation of 
Rome from the attack and fury of Attila — to the 
statue of the saint now in the Vatican Basilika, 
which was made by the order of St. Leo, out of 
the bronze statue of Jupiter Capitolinus — to the 
marble statue of St. Peter, formerly on the outside 
of the old churchy and now to be seen in the Grotte 
Vaticane — to the church of St. Pietro in Vincoli, 
which was erected by Eudoxia, in the year 442, 
for the preservation of the chains that bound him 



124 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME? 

when in prison at Jerusalem! These manacles 
were sent from the holy city of Jiidea, by Eudocia 
to her daughter Eudoxia, wife of the emperor 
Valentinian, and shortly after their arrival at Rome, 
they miraculously associated themselves with the 
chain that had bound St. Paul at Rome ! 

Catholics still further refer, in proof of their 
point, to the relics of St. Peter, now preserved at 
Rome, in the church of St. Cecilia, viz : two of his 
teeth, and seven rings of the chain by which he 
had been bound! The foregoing, with many 
others that might have been mentioned, are the 
materials that compose the argument of the Ro- 
manists in favour of St. Peter's residence at Rome, 
his persecutions there in establishing the new 
faith, his martyrdom there — and finally, his claims 
to be regarded as the founder of the church, the 
first Pope, and as the rock on which Christ himself 
promised that his church should be built. 

The Protestants, on the other hand, have either 
wholly denied his presence in the eternal city — or 
his alleged extended residence there, and establish- 
ment by him there of the church ; or lastly, they 
contend that if all the facts stated by Catholics be 
true, still, that they confer no official superiority 
whatever of this saint over St. Paul, or over any 
other of the apostles — that they confer no claims 
beyond that of mere bishop, and in no way sustain 
the Romish doctrine of papal power, even to any 
limited extent of ecclesiastical authority over other 
bishops. Had Protestants seen fit to adhere to 
this last simple view of the matter, they would 



WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 125 

easily have perceived where the substantial truth 
of the controversy was really to be found ; they 
would readily have separated the idle legends from 
plausible traditions, and from the credible histories 
of early times; and, in so doing, would unhesi- 
tatingly have admitted that the weight of evidence 
deduced from both, sufficiently established the fact 
that Saint Peter was at Rome on two several occa- 
sions^ and was there crucified during the first perse- 
cution of the church, under Nero. This being 
admitted, would, as I apprehend, in no degree 
have weakened the lawfulness and necessity of 
the Reformation, nor the justice of the denial to 
the Pope of Rome of every particular in which the 
two churches differ. 

But, without my now, or at any time, entering 
into such considerations, or in any way urging the 
comparative merits of either church, what have 
the Protestants been accustomed to urge, in reply 
to the naked fact of St. Peter's visit, or extended 
residence in Rome? They have carped much, 
though unnecessarily and yet with truth, at the 
idle fictions respecting some of the relics — as the 
chains, and the links of chains that bound St. Peter, 
and which ran, ^in osculation sweet,' to associate 
with those of St. Paul! — the pillar to which he 
had been manacled ! — the miraculous springing up 
of the water in the TuUian prison ! — the impres- 
sion made of his likeness in the solid stone, now 
exhibited on the side wall, as you descend the 
prison steps ! — the Saint's two teeth, so carefully 
preserved in the church of St. Cecilia!— the le- 



126 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME? 



i 



gend of Simon Magus ! — and siich like fancies, all 
of which might well be dismissed with mixed pity 
and surprise that, in a church so full of piety, 
zeal, learning, and worldly tact ; in days, too, of 
so much enlightenment as the present, the merest 
figments of primitive ignorance and superstition, 
should still be retained! Why not estabhsh a 
canon of relics? — why not winnow the pure grain 
from the chaif ; and, if there be genuine and 
indubitable relics, why not repose upon them 
exclusively, and give the rest to oblivion, and 
once more, to the darkness in which they may 
have originated ? 

If, however, our Catholic brethren will not do 
this ; if they will persist in marring the many 
xeal and substantial beauties and merits of their 
mother church, Protestants surely have no occa- 
sion, on their part, to disregard both history and 
tradition in respect to St. Peter, from any well 
grounded apprehension that legends or relics can, 
in any way, affect the argument for or against the 
views of Catholics and of Protestants — the ques- 
tion would still remain, and be a mere point of 
fact, ^Was St. Peter ever at Rome?' No! say 
many Protestants, for such a fact would have been 
somewhere recorded, or alluded to, in the acts of 
the apostles, in the gospels, in the epistles ; where- 1 
as, not a word of the kind is any where to be \ 
found in them ! 

The saint's residence in Rome for twenty-five 
years, as stated by Eusebius, is, say they, an inter- 
polation, not to be found in various editions of his 



A 



II 



..:jd.. 



WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME? 127 

work that have been published out of Rome ! and 
Origen, who lived considerably before Eusebius, 
refers St. Peter's visit to the close of his life: 
which, according to these protestant arguers, 
shows such a vague and contradictory account of 
the matter, as to cast the whole into doubt I His 
first visit, said to commence with the second year 
of Claudius, and nine years after the crucifixion^ 
could not have endured for seven years; nor could 
his second visit have lasted eighteen years ; nor 
could the first have been eighteen, and the second 
seven years, consistently with the narrative con- 
tained in the acts of the apostles? 

And many over zealous Protestants further 
think that had St. Peter been at Rome, at any 
time during which St. Paul wrote from that city, 
or to the Romans, he must have made some men- 
tion of his co-laborator, which he does not ; and 
hence, if he were not there during either of these 
times, it is difficult to find any such periods 
between the crucifixion of our Saviour, and the 
alleged date of St. Peter's martyrdom, since it 
would require even more than the whole of this 
intervening period to satisfy the residence claimed 
for him at Rome, by those who rely on the account 
of Eusebius, and others. 

Now, I confess, these views are to me quite suf- 
ficient to disprove the alleged extent of St. Peter's 
residence during the two combined visits; and 
many catholics have had the candour to abandon 
that altogether. But still, the extent of the resi- 
dence contended for may well be erroneous, and 



128 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME? 

the substance of the controversy be yet entitled to 
an affirmative answer. 

Dr. Campbell, in his brief notice of this ques- 
tion, has involved himself, as it seems to me, in at 
least an apparent contradiction, when he asserts 
that St. Peter's ever being at Rome rests solely on 
tradition^ and such a tradition as is very suspi- 
cious, accompanied as it is by such a number of 
legendary stories, as are totally unworthy of regard ; 
and because the scriptures, and all of the apostolic 
fathers are entirely silent on the subject; — and yet 
he adds that Clement of Rome, in the second cen- 
tury, mentions Peter's martyrdom as a known fact, 
without specifying, however, the place, but which, 
says the Doctor, 'I am inclined to think must have 
been at RomCy both because it is agreeable to the 
unanimous voice of antiquity, and because the 
sufferings of so great an apostle could not fail to 
be a matter of such notoriety in the church, as to 
preclude the possibility of an imposition in regard 
to the place.'^ And he afterwards states that the 
silence of scripture on the subject can only be 
reconciled by admitting that St. Peter's journey to 
Rome was not only posterior to the historical period 
embraced by the acts of the apostles, but to that 
embraced by Paul's epistles. 

Now, if Doctor Campbell's concessions be taken^ 
how do they consist with his allegation that the 
fact rests exclusively on a tradition, itself entitled 
to little weight because associated with legendary 



♦Eccle. Hist. p. 191. 



? 



WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME? 129 

stories? for, if the fact be conceded, it cannot be 
impaired by the circumstance of its connection 
with mere tradition and legends ; but, on his own 
showing, it seems to repose on something further 
than tradition and idle stories, else the concession 
would not have been made. As the matter, how- 
ever, stands upon the view thus taken of it by Dr. 
Campbell, it is, as it seems to me, all that the ques- 
tion really demands, unless, indeed, the point be at 
the same time connected with such a length of resi- 
dence as would of itself make St. Peter the first 
propagator of Christianity, and the first source of 
all christian authority, at Rome. But this has at 
no time been asserted by the Romanists, and need 
not have been, if their previous opinion be also 
correct, that St. Peter's presidency in the sacred 
college of the apostles, conferred on him by Christ, 
necessarily conferred on him an official superiority 
over the other apostles, which, however, is contra- 
dicted by the admitted fact that he sometimes 
acted in subordination to them, and they, in turn, 
seem never to have recognized any such official 
supremacy. 

Nor can I well perceive how a tradition as to 
his martyrdom at Rome, is to be entitled to more 
credit, than a like tradition of his two visits — of 
his long residence with the Senator Pudens — or of 
such other matters as are not manifestly legendary. 
It would seem, then, to be more consectaneous 
with the laws of evidence that we should care- 
fully separate all that tends to establish the naked 
fact of St. Peter's ever having been at Rome at all, 
12 



130 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME? 



from such considerations as go merely to the point 
of the authority claimed by the Roman church 
to have been exercised by him — questions essen 
tially distinct, but which the prejudice of party, 
or the intemperance of religious zeal, has too 
often confounded. St. Peter may have been often 
at Rome — may have been there martyred — may 
have received the far-famed chair from Pudens, 
his early convert — may have had there many 
churches and other monuments erected to his 
illustrious memory — the relics of him, moreover, 
may all be genuine, and his remains may now be 
enshrined in the venerable Vatican church — nay, 
he may even have the honour accorded to him of 
being the sole founder at Rome of the christian 
church, and take precedence therein of the Tuscan 
Linus, as bishop, and yet never have been Pope of 
Rome, or father over all churches in Christendom ; 
but have been merely, and at most, the first bishop 
of Rome^ without the least authority beyond the 
original limits of that bishopric ! 

It is likewise to be remembered that St. Peter 
was the founder, also, of the church at Antioch, 
which being the j'^r^^ church ever established by 
him, the popedom^ by rights, should have com- 
menced there, rather than at Rome. Certain it 
is, that St. Paul, writing from Rome to the Galla- 
tians, denominates St. Peter the apostle of the 
circumcision, and himself the apostle of the un- 
circumcision ; and further states that when Peter 
was come to Antioch, he (St. Paul) 'withstood 
him to the face, because he (Peter) was to be 



nt I 

n. 11 



WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 131 

blamed!' And, a short time before his death, in 
writing to Timothy from Rome, the same apostle 
says that 'Eubulus and Pudens, and Linus, and 
Claudia greet thee, and all the brethren.' Now, 
as to this Linus, if he ever were pope, it must 
have been either before or after St. Peter's resi- 
dence there, which, also, must have been before 
Paul's death ; and yet his name is not mentioned 
with that respect for precedency, which must have 
been accorded to him, had Linus as the bishop 
of Rome, been pope over all christian churches! 
It is likewise certain that Irenasus, near the 
close of the second century, makes no mention 
of St. Peter, as ever being even bishop of Rome, 
but speaks of Linus as the first bishop, and of 
Anacletus as the second. And who was Irenasus? 
Is not his authority as high as any that can be 
adduced? He was the pupil of Polycarp, a dis- 
ciple of the apostle John, so that being but a 
single remove from the age of St. Peter, and 
being, moreover, as eminent for his learning, as 
he was for piety, must have been familiar with 
the primitive organization^ of the church. Now 
this Irenasus, when bishop of Lyons, wrote his 
celebrated work against the 'Heretics' of those 
days ; and, in the third chapter of the third book 
of his work, he is so explicit on the subject of 
what is called apostolic succession, that all con- 
troversy about it would seem to be idle, especially 
as he is contradicted by no contemporaneous or 
antecedent authority, or by none, whatever, for 
several centuries after. The substance of his 



132 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME? 

remarks on this point is that — the apostles founded 
churches, and ordained bishops in them — that 
Peter and Paul founded the church at Rome, and 
ordained Linus to the charge of governing it — 
that Polycarp was ordained bishop of the church 
in Smyrna, and that he and Irenaeus were inti- 
mately acquainted— that a minute enumeration of 
the successions in all of the churches would be 
unnecessary and tedious, but that he would select 
the succession of the one founded at Rome, as 
being eminent and well known, and that the suc- 
cession of bishops, and the true faith as handed 
down from the time of the apostles to his own 
day (a little more than one hundred years only) 
was so perfectly familiar to him, that its mere 
statement would be sufficient to repel all idle 
conceits, and all perverse blindness of those op- 
posed to truth — that Linus was the first bishop 
of Rome, then came Anacletus — the third from 
the apostles was Clement, who saw the apostles 
themselves and conversed with them — and, after 
enumerating several others in succession after 
Clement, he says, Sextus was ordained the sixth 
from the apostles ; and, finally, coming to Eleu- 
therus, he says, 'he is now in the episcopate, 
being the twelfth in succession from the apostles.' 
Irenaeus then speaks of the church at Smyrna, of 
Polycarp as its first bishop, and says that as such 
he had always taught what he had learned from 
the apostles, and that to these things all the 
churches of Asia, and all the bishops from Poly- 
carp till the time of his writing, gave testimony. 



WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME ? 133 

After a statement so pointed and clear, it would 
seem that the door ought to be closed as to the 
question who was first bishop of Rome — and 
whether St. Peter was ever pope, or even bishop 
of Rome. 

The matter now in controversy, both as to the 
fact of St. Peter's visits to Rome, and the diverse 
inferences deduced from them by catholics and 
protestants, seems to have arisen long posterior 
to the age of Iren85us, — for it is not until the 
commencement of the fifth century that we per- 
ceive the first buddings of the since long vexed 
question, when Innocent I. conceived the thought 
of claiming for the episcopal see of Rome a supe- 
riority over other sees, in virtue of St. Peter'^s 
foundership^ which as he thought was entitled 
to precedence over Antioch, and consequently all 
others, because Si. Peter fully accomplished at 
Rome, what he had but commenced at Antioch ! 

As to the title oi pope^ it is an undeniable fact 
it was applied to bishops of other sees as well as 
that of Rome, and this too, long before papal 
supremacy was at all thought of Now, although 
'^the word pope, papa^ (probably from pater patrurri) 
does, ex vi termini, import chief, or \iQdA— father 
of fathers^ yet this does not import bishop of 
bishops — he may well have been father over all 
within the limits of his diocess, without claiming 
to exercise any extra territorial paternity or juris- 
diction. And so the historical fact is — for the 
bishop of Rome, at first, claimed no superiority 
or precedence, this having arisen in after limes, 
12* 



134 WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME? jol 

not merely in respect to the see of Rome, but as 
to several others, they being all classed in the 
scale of precedence, more in reference to the then 
existing temporal power, and other influences of 
each, than to any spiritual considerations what- 
ever; — and hence it was that the bishop of 
Rome, the first of cities in the empire, naturally 
took precedence of the bishop of Constantinople, 
which city was called 'New Rome-y and, in like 
manner, Alexandria took precedence of even An- 
tioch, the former being the superior city in every 
temporal respect. Had the superiority been ac- 
corded to 'old Rome^ because St. Peter was con- 
sidered the first pope, the council of Chalcedon, 
in the year 451, would never for a moment have 
thought of yielding the precedence to Rome over 
Constantinople, 'because it was the imperial city^ 
which was the language used on the occasion : nor 
could the pope, in after times, have feared that the 
bishoprick of Constantinople 'scarce named in 
former ages^ might with little ceremony^ be raised 
above the Roman ^ee,' because her temporal power 
seemed to be so fast gaining the ascendancy over 
that of the Eternal City. 

On the whole, then, the controversy respecting 
St. Peter's residence at Rome, seems to have been 
rather an unmeaning one, on both sides. The fact 
is clearly with the catholics — but the inferences 
of supposed importance, are, as clearly, with the 
protestants. The history of the Roman church 
since the apostoUc age, is at this time, too well 
understood to cause just grounds of apprehension 



WAS ST. PETER EVER AT ROME? 135 

for the stability of protestant, or of catholic claims : 
for such considerations as the long or short resi- 
dence of St. Peter in the imperial city — the pre- 
sence of his visible apostolic chair within the walls 
of the Vatican — the careful preservation at Rome 
of his martyred remains — or finally, from all the 
combined honours, so justly accorded by monu- 
ments, statues, and churches, to the memory of 
this chief of the apostles, and most venerated 
among saints — all such matters, as it seems to 
me, have but a feeble bearing on any question, 
either of church authority, or of church organiza- 
tion, and have been dwelt on, thus long in the 
present note, mainly to show how unnecessarily 
the learned and pious have, for ages, agitated 
their minds with immaterial facts, ingeniously 
blended with important inferences, with which, 
in truth, they have but an impotent connection! 
Both the great parties, in such controversies, 
give to alleged facts an unmerited and factitious 
importance, instead of calmly inquiring, first as to 
their value, if true ; and secondly, the proofs ac- 
cording to the philosophy of evidence on which 
they repose. Had these distinct objects been ever 
kept in view, the result, as I think, must have 
been that, in a theological point of view, the facts 
are of very minor importance, and that the catho- 
lics, though they have sufficiently established the 
verity of their principal facts, have wholly failed 
in many collateral matters, and in all of the infe- 
rences on which they have so zealously insisted. 



136 DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. 
NOTE XI. — DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. 

I HAVE long been curious to know, but have 
never yet been able to ascertain, what became of 
the Stuart Papers, discovered by Dr. Watson at 
Rome, some twenty or more years ago. It is well 
known that this clever Scotch gentleman went to 
Italy on a pilgrimage in search of valuable histori- 
cal, political, and literary relics of the house of 
Stuart, then said to be at Rome in the hands of 
individuals, who set but little store by them; and 
that they were rescued by him from their oblivion, 
but in a strange and most despotic manner, were 
wrested from him ! It is said that Dr. Watson, 
after a toilsome search, discovered that the execu- 
tor of the Cardinal of York — or, if legitimacy be 
rigidly insisted on, then of Henry IX. still retained 
a very large collection of precious manuscripts, so 
little prized, however, by the executor, as to be 
found in a dusty and leaky garret, and which Dr. 
Watson purchased of him for no considerable sum, 
and removed them to his own apartments. These 
papers, when assorted, were found to consist of 
nearly half a million of distinct articles, more than 
one half of which were said to be extremely inte- 
resting and curious, forming in themselves mate- 
rials for many volumes of great novelty. Among 
these remains, the accumulation of nearly a cen- 
tury, were letters from many crowned heads, from 
statesmen, noblemen, and scholars of the day. 
There were letters of Pope, of Swift, of Boling- 
broke, and others, together with documents, 



DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. 137 

which, had they come to light shortly after they 
were penned, would have occasioned much excite- 
ment, and possibly important results. In them 
might be found the various schemes devised for 
the restoration of the exiled royal house of Stuart — 
the views of its partisans, the hopes, fears, and 
anticipated plans of its enemies — a revelation of 
names true to their king, but whom, from policy 
and other causes, were ranged ostensibly on the 
side of the existing powers — all of which interest- 
ing matters, though they related to transactions 
that were long past, and of individuals no longer 
living, and of families, perhaps now extinct, were 
still sufficiently attractive to bring crowds of visi- 
ters to Dr. Watson's house, which ended in so 
alarming the papal government, that the secretary 
of state was sent, first with overtures for the re-pur- 
chase of the papers, but which, soon after, even- 
tuated in obtaining them by force, accompanied 
also by arrest of the patriotic Scot ! The Pope 
then gave orders for the careful examination of the 
manuscripts, which were finally tendered to the 
British government, and a frigate was hastily de- 
spatched with them to England ! Dr. Watson, as 
the tale goes, immediately thereafter was released 
from his durance vile, and as soon as possible ap- 
peared before the Regent at Carlton House, and 
there claimed as his own purchased property, the 
manuscripts ; which, as he contended, could be 
regarded in no other light than as the private 
and individual property of a bona fide purchaser, 
and to which the crown, or reigning monarch of 



138 DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. 

England, could have no hereditary claim, especially 
after a sale by a regularly constituted executor in a 
foreign land. But, where power is mostly on one 
side— where possession (said to be nine points of 
the law) was in a mighty prince, and where state 
policy might conflict with private views, either of 
utility or of emolument, the hope of a favourable 
decision for the return of the papers, could have 
been but slight. A commission, however, was 
constituted to investigate the claim, which, as I 
suppose, being found untenable, we hear no more 
of Dr. Watson; and the question now is, what has 
become of these Stuart Papers ! for^ although two 
large quarto volumes have been given to the world, 
by the Rev. Mr. Clarke, which are said to have 
been published by the command of the Prince 
Regent, from original Stuart manuscripts, disco- 
vered since the death of the last of the Stuarts ; 
there seems to be some confusion in regard to the 
batch of papers from which these volumes are 
compiled ; and whether they embrace any of those 
purchased by Dr. Watson! It is said, indeed, that 
the whole tale of Dr. Watson's discovery at Rome, 
is untrue, and that a valuable collection was pur- 
chased by him at Paris, from a priest, who, faith- 
less to the trust reposed in him by the pope's audi- 
tor, sold them, and for a trifle; and though shortly 
after regained by the auditor, they never reached 
Carlton House ! This, however, is, in turn, pro- 
bably a great mistake ; but the two volumes issued 
by the prince's command, (if no others have been 
since published) seem not to contain those em- 



DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. 1-39 

braced by Dr. Watson's collection. It is said 
that Atterbury's letter giving a plan of invasion — 
another from the Duke of Leeds to the admiral 
then in command of the fleet, offering him an im- 
mense sum, and a peerage, as a tempting guerdon 
for his defection, and also many private letters of 
friendship, which passed between the royal exiles, 
their relatives and secret adherents, as also for their 
companions in misfortune, all of which were full 
of interest, formed a part of the extensive collec- 
tion, once in Dr. Watson's possession. 

I confess, I am never drawn to the sad fate of 
the first Charles, without emotion, and a deep sym- 
pathy, for the downfall of his house — but then, how 
soon am I compelled to remember what an arrant 
knave ^nd petit maitre was the second Charles, and 
what a pauvre diable was the second James ! and 
further, how illustrious has been the nation's glory, 
under the house of Brunswick; and how glowing 
and radiant are the hopes of this truly great people, 
under their present very promising, though youth- 
ful. Queen Victoria ! The unhappy Charles during 
his gloomy imprisonment at Carisbrooke castle, is 
then nearly forgotten — and even the dreadful scene 
of his execution becomes in some degree veiled 
from my view — and the wanderings of the Pre- 
tender, Charles Edward, and the long, pious, and 
unpretending Ufe of Henry — the last of the Stuarts, 
all pass in review before me, with nothing beyond 
those fleeting, and mere historical sympathies, 
which leave no shadow of regret on one's mind, 
that their throne has been so long occupied, and is 



140 DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. 

destined for ever so to be, by those of other blood ; 
and that when Henry, Cardinal d'York, in 1807, 
was consigned to his tomb in the church at Fras- 
cati, that event made an end for ever of this long, 
long line of noble and of royal blood, that counted 
from the Norman Fitz Alan, through a period of 
eight centuries ! And yet, when my eye ran 
rapidly over the poor little monument erected to his 
memory, as also that to his brother prince Charles 
Edward, who died in 1787, 1 could not but feel as 
if I should have been better pleased, had the great 
British nation, in this one instance at least, have 
manifested a more generous feeling towards this 
last of an unfortunate family, and for ever have 
recorded by a splendid mausoleum, and an apt 
inscription, not only their own oblivion of the. 
errors that deprived the Stuarts of their throne, 
but the nation's enduring horror at the act that 
consigned the most amiable of that family to im- 
prisonment, and to a most unmerited death. There 
is likewise a monument in St. Peter's at Rome, to 
the memory of James TIL and of his sons, Charles 
and Henry — the genii, with their inverted torches, 1 1 
beautifully and mournfully tell us, the royal line of 
these titular kings is now extinct. It is a delight- 
ful work, by Canova — by whom, or at whose in-i 
stance erected, I do not remember. 

The character of Henry, bishop of Frascati, 
seems to be but little known, and indeed, little has 
been ever said or written of him. I was happy, 
therefore, to meet in the chaste and veracious 
Forsyth, with the following notice of the king — 



I 



DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. 141 

Cardinal, which, I trust, will need no apology for 
its insertion here. — *At the Rocca I was intro- 
duced to Cardinal York, and felt some emotion 
on seeing the last withered branch of that unfor- 
tunate family which had reigned in my country 
so many ages. The Cardinal appeared to me an 
hospitable, warm-hearted, testy old man, and dis- 
covered, even at his own table, something of that 
peremptory manner which, being supported by 
long seniority and illustrious birth, gave him, I 
understood, an ascendency in the sacred college, 
over minds superior to his own. When my name 
and country were announced, he said he had heard 
of second sight in Scotland, but never of Fore- 
sight^ and this poor joke drew a laugh from all 
that understood English, which the Cardinal talks 
pretty well for a foreigner. When my friend told 
him that my grandfather fell in the Stuart cause, 
the recollection of that cause drew a tear into his 
eye, an emotion to which he is very subject. His 
face is handsome, smooth, ruddy, without wrinkle, 
except on the forehead. He stoops much and 
walks with difficulty. His dress was an alterna- 
tion of red and black ; a scarlet coif; a black coat 
hned with scarlet silk; a black silk mantle, a 
scarlet waistcoat, black velvet breeches, scarlet 
stockings, black shoes, scarlet heels, purple coat 
laced with gold, and a plain episcopal cross on 
his breast. I could perceive at dinner a residue 
of royal state. There was a space between him 
and us sufficient for another cover — after a pause 
in conversation, none began till he spoke. He 
13 



142 DR. WATSON AND THE STUART PAPERS. 

had a salt-cellar for himself, but it was stone-ivarel 
the others were of silver : he had his own soup in 
a porringer ! and ours was in a tureen. On his 
carriage he has the regal crown under the Cardi- 
nal's hat : but he never assumed, like his brother, 

the title of majesty.' Will the human heart 

ever lose its interest, even in such little matters, 
when they relate to those who have, or who might 
have been, at the head of human power and great- 
ness? Truly no. And yet it would be difficult 
to resolve this feeling into its primary elements, 
so as to show us clearly, why it is so ! When 
Napoleon fell, the world rejoiced; when in exile 
on a desert rock, the world sympathized ; and that 
sympathy seemed to grow deeper, and deeper, not 
merely as the fallen emperor became more and 
more oppressed, but as the proofs grew stronger 
and stronger of the solid blessings the world was 
enjoying, in consequence of his exile ! How won- 
derful are the human heart and mind! — what a 
medley of inconsistencies and of contradictions is 
it! — who, but that great Being, to whom nothing 
is dark, can unravel it ! 



TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 143 



NOTE XII. — TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 

'Better late than never' is an old saw that 
every one likes — it savours of existing hope, or of 
positive acquisition, which though long deferred, 
still comes with 'healing on its wings,' to gladden 
the heart, and to compensate for many anxious 
expectations. 

The saying is eminently true, though seldom so 
applied, as to repentance, which, come when it 
may, even in the article of death, is never too 
late, if it be that deep remorse for sin, that un- 
mixed reliance on the Saviour, and that thorough 
resolution to avoid a relapse, which springs from 
a love towards heaven, and not from a mere dread 
of hell. The doctrine to which I allude, in any 
of its forms, and however true it may be, is still 
environed with many dangers; and, if ever adopt- 
ed as a rule of action, or permitted, in any degree 
to influence our conduct when in health, will 
be very apt to stand us in the poorest stead, when 
we come to the last hour. 

He is, indeed, a reckless calculator, who could 
for a moment voluntarily defer the day of amend- 
ment, that he may intermediately sin, until incli- 
nation, or ability so to do, shall cease, and then 
be followed by the hoped for saving repentance! 
The truth is that, perhaps, nearly all men love 
repentance in the abstract; but, present enjoy- 
ments, engrossing miseries, or sheer thoughtless- 
ness, shut out reflection; or, if that sometimes 



144 TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 



1 



comes, they lack the moral courage — the firmness 
of purpose, either to make, or to execute any pious 
resolution. Many do mentally assent to the beauty 
of the virtues, and to the necessity of a change of 
life ; but they shrink from action^ or vainly hope 
for some instantaneous and, as it were, compulsory « 
transformation, that may plant them safely on the 
shore of unalloyed spiritual enjoyment, without 
resort to any of the pains and denials of an active ^ 
seeking after its goods. ^ 

Now, as it seems to me, it is this very slugglish- » 
ness, this passive willingness to be changed^ and \ 
the absence of all active willingness to change 
themselves^ that occasion men to cling so tena- 
ciously to the hope, and to the efficacy of a death- 
bed repentance. When in health, the mind indulg- 
ing this hope, transfers itself, in imagination, to the 
moment when all necessity for action is gone, and 
when life, then about to end, can no longer have 
any charms. Such an imagination demands no 
present, and active willingness, no instant sacrifice, 
no actual change of condition — and hence may be 
full of that passive willingness, which deceives 
ourselves, assumes the show of rehgion, and 
makes a present merit of a possible future death- 
bed repentance! 

But even this shadow of anticipated religion, 
this curious blending and compounding of passive 
with active willingness, this mere fiction and con- 
trivance of the deceitful and subtle en«my of man, 
wholly vanishes, the moment any appeal is made 
to such persons to show at once the verity of their 



TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 145 

wishes and their hopes, by even some partial 
relinquishment of a besetting sin. It is on such 
an occasion that the mind begins to plead its own 
infirmities, to ponder over the world's pleasures, 
cares, and temptations, and to at first silently post- 
pone, and then openly and willingly banish all 
further reflection — until a more convenient season ! 
Connected with the mental state first mentioned, 
is the great alacrity with which one listens to, and 
the confidence he reposes in, nearly every idle tale 
of the happy, nay triumphant exit, even from the 
scaffold, of some notorious robber, pirate, or mur- 
derer! That mankind have this strange procli- 
vity, that some indulge it to a great extent, and 
that its solution is ever to be found in the princi- 
ple I have stated, there seems to be no reason to 
doubt : and though the clergy be specially called 
on by their holy vocation, to use their zealous 
endeavors in behalf of those destined to forfeit life 
for their crimes, it seems to me specially unwise, 
as well in regard to public policy, as to salutary 
religion, to blazon forth their successes, as has 
been so often done in this, and in other countries; 
and to place such violators of divine and human 
laws among the saints^ as objects of a lively sym- 
pathy, and to pass them, as it were, from the scene 
of execution, to one of unmingled triumph! The 
clergy, in common with all good men, ought to 
be happy at such changes; but let there be no 
open parade of such conversions, lest we greatly 
augment the number of those, already very great, 
who would 'begin to live, only when ready to die, 
13* 



146 TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 

and then, after a foe^s desert^ come to claim of God 
3. friend'^s entertainment P 

It is indeed true and a great solace that there *is . I 
more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, ^ " 
than over ninety and nine just men, that need 
no repentance' — but such repentances as we now | 
speak of, and even of those who die in their beds, ! 
and who have no capital sins to mourn over, should ! 
ever be regarded as belonging to so humble a class * 
of converts, as to have no just claim to be vaunted i 
of, but should be permitted, in all humility, after \ 
the interesting fact is adverted to, to remain among 
those unsought and little known to mortal eye, so 
far as regards their destiny in the world beyond 
the grave: for these last-hour repentances, are 
matters between them and their Creator, to be 
spoken of with a marked humility, surrounded as 
they usually are, by so many dangers and doubts, 
and being in themselves, so liable to be false and 
insidious counterfeits, and plausible contrivances 
of the arch-enemy of human souls, and so often 
extorted, during the agonizing moments of mental 
arid of bodily pain, as to render the criterions of 
genuine faith, far from sure to human scrutiny. 
Be this, however, as it may, I am quite certain 
that, although the solaces of hope should never be 
withdrawn, it is the supremest of follies to value 
on a supine or voluntary postponement of reforma- 
tion to some future day, which may be not only 
suddenly cut off by any one of a thousand acci- 
dents, but be rendered wholly unavailing by bodily 
pains, that banish the possibility of a sober and 



TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 147 

thorough repentance. But, in respect to storming 
heaven J as it were, by the sudden appeals of those 
who, in a few short days are to expiate their crimes 
on a scaffold, and to deal with them so triumph- 
antly, as is sometimes the case, seems to me sig- 
nally unwise, both as respects the wicked and the 
good — all that such cases seem to justify is a silent, 
unobtrusive thankfulness for the rich manifestation 
of God's grace ; and not such triumphant proces- 
sions to the scaffold, as are sometimes witnessed, 
confounding the tried saints with those who, 
almost in articulo mortis have been tried sinners ! 

This reminds me of a quaint, but very pertinent 
remark of Sir Walter Raleigh, who saith, Hhere be 
some persons who think to snatch heaven in a mo- 
ment, which the best can scarce attain unto even 
in the maintenance of very many years ; and when 
they have glutted themselves with wordly delights, 
(or crimes of the darkest dye) would jump from 
Dives' fare, to Lazarus' crown — from the service of 
Satan, to the solace of a saint !' 

Now, to such persons would I respond in the 
language of this same wise, but unfortunate man, 
who thus discourseth on the point in hand — 'But 
be ye well assured, that God is not so penurious of 
friends, as to hold himself and his kingdom sale- 
able for the refuse and reversion of their lives, who 
have sacrificed the principal part thereof to his 
enemies, and to their own brutish lusts — then 
ceasing to offend, only when the ability of offend- 
ing is taken from them.' 



148 TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 

In an article entitled ' The Dutiful Advice of a 
loving Son to his aged Father^'* by the same inte- 
resting philosopher, there are some pertinent obser- 
vations on my subject ; which being so full of just 
thought, nervously expressed, are transferred to my 
Note Book, to be often read by me, and for my 
profit, withal, who am no longer a ^son^^ but a 
somewhat ^ aged father? 

'If you were now laid upon your departing bed,' 
(saith the son to the father) 'burthened with the 
heavy load of your former trespasses, and gored 
with the sting and prick of a festered conscience ; 
if you felt the cramp of death wresting your heart- 
strings, and ready to make the rueful divorce be- 
tween body and soul ; if you lay panting for 
breath, and swimming in cold and pale sweat, 
wearied with struggling against your deadly pangs, 
oh what would you not give for an hour's repen- 
tance ! — at what a rate would you value a day's 
contrition ! Then worlds would be worthless in 
respect of a little respite — a short truce would seem 
more precious than the treasures of an empire — 
nothing would be so much esteemed as a short 
time of truce, which now by days, and months, 
and years, is most lavishly mis-spent !' — Again, 'it 
is a strange piece of art, and a very exorbitant 
course, when the ship is bound, the pilot well, the 
mariners strong, the gale favourable, and the sea 
calm, to lie idly in the road, during so seasonable 
weather: and when the ship leaketh, the pilot sick, 
the mariners faint, the storms boisterous, and the 



TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 149 

seas a turmoil of outrageous surges, then to launch 
forth, hoist up sail, and set out for a long voyage 
into a far country ! — And yet such is the skill of 
these evening repenters, who though in the sound- 
ness of their health, and perfect use of their reason, 
they cannot resolve to cut the cables, and weigh 
anchor that withholds them from God.' — 'Never- 
theless, they feed themselves with- a strong persua- 
sion, that when they are astonied, their wits dis- 
tracted, their understanding dusked, and their 
bodies and souls racked and tormented with the 
throbs and gripes of a mortal sickness*— then, for- 
sooth, they begin to think of their weightiest 
matters, and become sudden saints^ when they 
are scarce able to behave themselves like reason- 
able creatures.' — ^'No, no ; if neither the canon, 
civil, nor common law will allow a man, perished 
in judgment, to make any testament of his tem- 
poral substance; how can he, who is animated 
with inward garboils of an unsettled conscience, 
distrained with the wringing fits of his expiring 
body, maimed in all his ability, and circled on 
every side, with many and strange incumbrances, 
be thought of due discretion to dispose of his 
chiefest jewel — his soul? and to despatch eternity ^ 
and all the treasures of heaven^ in so short a 
spurt! — No, no; they that will loiter in seed-time, 
and begin to sow when others reap; they that 
will riot out their health, and begin to cast their 
accounts, when they are scarce able to speak ; they 
that will slumber out the day, and enter upon their 
journey when the light doth fail them, must blame 



150 TAKING HEAVEN BY STORM. 

their own folly, if they die in debt, and be eternal 
beggars. ' 

The foregoing passages from Sir Walter Raleigh, 
seem to me most worthy of being printed in letters 
of gold^ and to form a little vade mecum^ to be sus- 
pended round the neck, close to the heart, of every 
son and daughter of Adam — that they may be re- 
minded, constantly, how poor the dependence is of 
those who would flatter themselves that, at some 
remote day, they may take heaven by storm ! And, 
I feel almost ashamed of my own previous remarks, 
when placed in such close connection with his, — 
for Raleigh's thoughts, like the diamond, are bril- 
liant in proportion to their solidity — other men's 
are made to shine in the lustre of language, in 
proportion as solidity fails them. 

But, in conclusion, let me add what Quarles 
hath said of repentance. 

' 'Tis to bewail the sins thou didst commit ; 
And not commit those sins thou hast bewail 'd. 
He that bewails and not forsakes them too, 
Confesses rather what he means to do.' 

In now parting with my subject, I would only 
say, that an attempt to take heaven by storm, is 
still an homage to the Most High, and is far better 
than that sullen despair which the following lines 
of Joanna Baillie would seem to inculcate : — 

'Priest ! spare thy words — I add not to my sins 
That of presumption, in pretending now 
To offer up to heaven the forc'd repentance 
Of some short moments, for a life of crimes.' 



CHAPTER IV. 

XIII. THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. — XIV. BENVENUTO 
CELLENI.— XV. PUBLIC CEMETERIES. — XVI. EVENTS HOW 
RELATED TO REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. 

NOTE XIII. THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 

One hardly knows whether to be more amused 
than vexed, with the idle fancies and studied dis- 
play of vain and curious learning, in which some 
college-bred gentlemen, of thin minds, love to 
indulge. When we permit our thoughts to dwell 
more on words, than on ideas ; when such things 
as accident, quantity, etymology, nomenclature, 
and the like auxiliaries and mere ladders to 
science, are allowed to take the place of the very 
essence of knowledge, you may be quite sure that 
the individual so affected, though abounding in 
all the heaped-up accumulations of learning, has 
more of memory, than of judgment, — is charged 
to overflowing with facts, — and is yet devoid of the 
powers of analysis, and of justly applying them ; 
and that, with much voluble and plausible display 
of knowledge, he has still a very tiny mind, and 
but little of that philosophical practicalness which 
comes from the fountain of common sense. 



152 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 

I am reminded of this species of character by a 
remarkable conversation between a curious En- 
glishman and myself, at Rome, which was strange- 
ly brought about. A more kind-hearted, wordy, 
amusing, and pedantic gentleman of books, seldom 
issued from Oxford or Cambridge. When in a 
foreign land. Englishmen are proverbially anti- 
social ; and the traveller, from whatever land, 
scarce ventures to address one of them, without 
some special authority so to do; and thus it was,! 
at first, between us; and our centrifugal relations 
might for ever have continued, had not the Briton's 
etymological passion, eventually triumphed overj 
national character — and opened his mouth. 

During nearly three hours, we had both been] 
solitary and silent explorers, as it turned out, of j 
the same interesting point — the true course and 
limits of the Via Sacra ! We met first, near the 
Temple of Antoninus and Faustina, every part of 5 
which was curiously examined by us — we then | 
traced the progress of the sacred way through the | 
Forum, passed with it under the Arch of Titus, ■ 
examined many patches, here and there visible, ♦ 
of some ancient road, either that, or the Via 
Triumphalis I — stopped under the Arch, through 
which, it is said, Jews never pass, and inspected, 
with minuteness, this very early, if not the earliest 
specimen of the composite order, — noted its deeply 
interesting bas-reliefs, so learnedly illustrated by 
Reland — eyed each other an hundred times — stood 
in close contact under the Arch, and with intense 
curiosity, scanned its yet perfect remains, which 



THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 153 

sculpture to the eye the very forms of the sacred 
vessels used in the Temple of Jerusalem — then 
passed again into the Forum — reached the Temple 
of Peace, or rather the Basilka of Constantine — 
looked with wonder at its enormous arches — on 
the remains of its stuccoed ceilings, its broken 
shafts and capitals — and pondered over the nume- 
rous fragments, which indicated a truly mammoth 
building ; — and leaving these, we were conducted, 
under the guidance of a bright moon, near an 
hour after sun-set, to the base of the Mamertine 
Prisons — and (would you credit it gentle reader !) 
all this was done without our exchanging a single 
word, though we had given each other many 
very significant, and apparently yearning looks, 
the result, possibly, of that irresistible sympathy 
which springs from the social principle, and espe- 
cially from a community of pursuit ! 

My patience, I confess, had been nearly ex- 
hausted; and had he hailed from any other land, 
I should most certainly have disturbed his taci- 
turnity. The noble hospitality, the great good 
sense, the elegant refinement of Englishmen, which 
I had seen and experienced, when sojourning for 
a time in England, flashed across my mind, and 
mitigated the severity of judgment, I should other- 
wise have passed upon him. For a moment, I 
was disposed to leave him abruptly; and pursue 
my way, alone and solitary to my lodgings, quite 
remote from where we then were. But, as we 
ascended the long flight of steps which led into 
the Capitoline Piazza, my surprise was extreme, 
14 



154 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 

when the silent gentleman suddenly started upon 
me a series of etymological questions, doubts, and 
solutions — some of which will be here recorded. 

As he looked upon the broad expanse of the 
Mamertine prison, here, flooded with light from 
the clear moon, and there, cast into shade ; and as 
we were slowly ascending towards its base, he 
abruptly said, ^Unde derivatur — whence comes 
this word mamertine ? do you know, it puzzles 
me greatly — is it likely that Pancirolli is correct? 
he, you know, derives it from Mamercus^ who, 
you know, was one of the sons of Numa, and 
the founder of the Mamercian family — the name 
Mamercus is said to have passed, as words, you 
know, often do, into Mamertinus.' Without yield- 
ing me the least chance to respond to his question, 
he proceeded to unfold the contents of his etymo- 
logical budget, whilst we tacitly agreed to wend 
our way home, much more like social beings, than f^ 
had been our previous relation. ^I confess,' con- 
tinued he, 'Pancirolli's account of the matter is 
not at all to my mind. Ancus Martins, you know, 
was its founder; it is quite probable, then, that 
this prison takes its name from him, — for Martins 
was anciently written Mamertius, and this agrees, . 
you know, with the Oscan language, in which the ! 
word Mamers is equivalent to Mars, which is but 
a contraction of Mamers or Martins — do you not 
think so?' 

I at once, as I thought, saw into the strange 
vein of my new acquaintance, with whom etymo- 
logy was evidently a mania ; and, as he had some- 



THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 155 

what incommoded me by his three hours' hermeti- 
cal taciturnity, I was now disposed, innocently to 
provoke him to 'much talk,' by somewhat conflict- 
ing with his opinions. My reply, therefore, a little 
disturbed him, but was the source of many subse- 
quent etymological colloquies, as we happened to 
meet in our antiquarian rambles. 'I confess,' said 
I, Hhat etymology has ever seemed to me among 
the most fallible of guides to truth of any kind ; 
and that it should be appealed to, only in the 
dernier resort, I would not reject it absolutely; 
but, as there is so broad a latitude in it for the 
merest fancies, and as so many absurd refinements 
have ever attended it, I cannot but view it with 
extreme suspicion, and seldom place any reliance 
on it, unless where the radix, its corruptions, 
transitions, additions, (fcc. are very palpable — or 
where some collateral evidence comes to my aid 

4 differ with you toto coelo^ rejoined my com- 
panion ; 'etymology is the surest key to unlock 
very many doubts and difficulties; it has great 
utility, great certainty, and embraces an immense 
variety of subjects.' 'I willingly consent to all 
you say, provided it he etymology lawfully used— 
but what you have said, even in respect to the 
word mamertine, seems to me sheer and mere 
conjecture; for, on your own showing, it may be 
derived either from Mamertia, the son of Numa, 
or from Mamers, an equivalent Oscan word for 
Martins — or it may, as I think I could show, 
come from several other sources.' 'Not at all, sir, 
not at all,' harshly replied the Englishman, 'see 



156 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 



#: 



how obviously the transitions and contractions 
bring you up to the Oscan root — and Ancus Mar- 
ti us being the admitted founder, furnishes the 
collateral evidence you have demanded, showing 
that martins and mamertinus are evidently equi- 
valent words.' 'You doubtless know,' said I with 
affected gravity, 'the old account about the word 
Wjango^ how it is derived from a certain Mr. Jere- 
miah King — by the accustomed resort to transi- 
tions, contractions, and corruptions, somewhat in 
this wise — Jeremiah King — Jerry King — Jerk- 
ing — Girken — Cucumber — Mango ! ' 

'This you know,' rejoined the etymologist, 'was 
manufactured, and originally uttered in derision of 
etymology; and, perhaps, you would now so apply 
it — but ridicule can never be the test of truth ; and 
the very case you put, establishes my position, for 
even your extreme case might well have hap- 
pened — mango might have gone through these 
and many more changes, for what I know, and 
have had for its progenitor Mr. Jeremiah King ! — 
all etymology proves this, I mean the principle, 
as might be abundantly proved by instances of 
transition, quite as curious as the one you have 
so disparagingly cited.' 

'And I, in turn, could state a thousand still 
more tortured and far-fetched, than that of mango, 
which you seem not utterly to repudiate ! What 
do you think of Fabian's derivation of Constanti- 
nople from Constantinus nobilis — Constantine the 
noble ! and how, upon his principle, would he 
derive Adrianople, and is not pie a corruption of 



THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 157 

polis — that is, Constantinoi-polis, the city of Con- 
stantine? But, passing by Fabian, who evidently 
made a signal blunder — what do you think of the 
word LoUardy from lolium — tares! — a convenient 
etymological argument this, for awarding the writ 
de comburendo heretico against all Lollards, as but 
tares, meritorious of a fiery destruction ! Or fur- 
ther, what do you think of the etymon of Mercury 
who, as the tale goes, was hated by the other 
gods, as a fantastic fellow that was ever striving 
to ingratiate himself with those whom he wished 
to cheat, and was then dubbed by them a mere 
curry! In like manner the word Gazette hath 
puzzled the etymologists — what do you think of 
its derivation from the fact that quidnuncs^ eager 
after news, anxiously gaze at these convenient 
vehicles ! — or, of King Pepin ^ as derived from 
some Greek word for diaper ; and hence, by your 
favourite transition process, napkin — nipkin — pip- 
kin — pippin king — King Pipin ! The word decre- 
pitude has imputed to it a somewhat fanciful origin, 
though certainly a possible one — the ancients, as it 
is said, never extinguished their lamps, but per- 
mitted them to expire by the last crackle ! Hence 
a lamp was said decrepitare^ that is, to cease to 
crackle— and, by comparing our life to the exhaus- 
tion of a lamp, we now say, by way of metaphor, 
that persons verging on the grave, are decrepit. 
Now, 1 confess, I like this derivation well enough, 
it's classical^ 'you know,' (using his favourite ex- 
pression.) But, I will call your attention to one 

more ; how do you like the cockney derivation of 

14# 



158 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 

our ejaculation 'heigh-ho !' for, when molested by 
the troublesome pipstafF, they would each mentally 
say 'I owe,' which when spoken out, by adding 
their accustomed aspirates, would make 'hi — 
hmoe^ — and hence, by augmentation and contrac- 
tion, we have heigh-ho P 

'You are certainly quite sportive,' replied the 
English gentleman, with a great deal of gravity ; 
^but, I repeat, ridicule is no test of truth — what, 
suffer me to ask, that is useful and admirable, may 
not be rendered, for a moment, extremely ridicu- 
lous, by the ingenious application of unmitigated 
ridicule? I cannot consent to abandon an old 
friend, merely because he happens to be clad, for a 
time, in tattered, amusing and unworthy habili- 
ments cast upon him by others ! — Etymology cer- 
tainly merits deep attention — in languages, it is 
inestimable, in history, it is a bright torch — it 
illustrates the fine arts, settles questions of doubt- 
ful chronology, reveals the disputed origin and 
uses of very many things. — Thus, for example, 
when we find the name of Italy derived from 
Italos — virtulus — a calf, we ascertain the fact that 
the ancient Italians were great herdsmen, or raisers 
of cattle ; so, hkewise, there is surely some utility, 
as well as satisfaction, in being able, as we are, to 
derive the word capital from caput Toll — the head 
of Tolus, or, as Arnobius, with still more veresimi- 
litude, gives the name, 0-lus, and hence caput — 
Olus — caputol — capitol. Now, as the head of this 
Tolus, or Olus, at the very time of digging for the 
foundations, was discovered with the face entire, it 



THE TRAVELLING EYTMOLOGIST. 159 

was held to give thereby a presage of Rome's future 
greatness ; and that Rome would be the head of 
the empire of the world — hence this great temple 
took the name of the capiiol, as the head of Tolus 
presaged, that on that spot, Rome should be made 
the head of all empire, military, civil, and eccle- 
siastical ! Again, we see the Caryatides^ in every 
form, and almost every where. We are curious to 
know the origin, no less of the name, than of the 
curiously fashioned pillar; and how beautiful, and 
natural is its etymological history ! how admirably 
does the figure itself of this pillar, harmonize with 
the tale of its imputed origin ! These caryatides, 
as you know, uniformly represent the upper part of 
a female body, sustaining on its head, the incum- 
bent weight. Now the citizens of Carya united 
with the Persians against the Greeks, who proving 
victorious, put all the males to the sword, and sub- 
jected the females to slavery, who were compelled 
to march in the victor's triumphal procession, clad 
in graceful flowing robes, and supporting burthens 
on their heads, as indicative of their captivity and 
future servitude. The architects of those days, 
availing themselves of this transaction, both to per- 
petuate its memory, and to add another graceful 
and appropriate order to their art, contrived these 
pillars, hence called caryatides, which represent 
the head and shoulders of a female on the top of 
the shaft, with the entablature resting on the head. 
You have been pleased,' continued the etymolo- 
gist, 'to be very sportive with what you call our 
transitions, contractions, ifcc. and yet, to give you 



160 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 

Other examples, can any one doubt but that the 
renowned Punch has gone through all of these ? 
Is it not manifest that the word is derived from 
Pulliceno — PuUicinella — Punchenello, and, for 
short, Punch ? We have high authority for this, 
were any really needed. And, in like manner, one 
cannot doubt but that the name of the town of 
Gensano is derived from Cynthianum, the fane of 
Cynthia — and hence Gensanum — Gensano. So 
also, Horace mentions the gelidus Digentia rivus ; 
now, this Digentia is evidently found in the mo- 
dern lAcenza, which is the present name of the 
poet's Sabine farm; and I may likewise advert to 
Catullus' villa, which now, by corruption, is called 
Truglia^ and with equal certainty is derived from 
Catulli. 

'So, the church we examined a few hours ago, 
called S. Maria in Dominica^ is evidently so called 
by corruptions and transitions from Domitiani- 
Mica ; for you know, Domitius' Cenaculum, called 
the Mica Aurea^ was built upon the site of the pre- 
sent church — no part of the Mica remains ; but the 
church we saw, was dedicated to the Madomiay 
and originally was called the Santa Maria in Do- 
mica, to perpetuate the fact that its foundations 
were laid upon the site of Domitian's Mica — and 
this through various transitions may still be traced, 
as we find that it was first in Do-mica, then in 
Domnica, and now in Dominica: for, Dominica 
has no meaning ; but Do-mica, is itself obviously 
a contraction for Domitiani-mica. 



THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 161 

*And, in like manner, how well doth an early 
traveller, whose name I now forget, but who came 
to Italy in the fifteenth century, explain the origin 
of the word Venice !— There is, says he, a little 
church there, called Santo Jacobo, which is the 
ancientest church in all Venice ; and on that spot 
was the first house built, and the city was named 
at that time venete qua^ in English, ^come hither,' 
for it was free for every man to build there ; and, 
from that phrase, ^venete qua,' it is now turned 
into 'Venetia.' 

^Your faith in etymology,' rejoined I, ^seems to 
me very great; it may afford you much amuse- 
ment ; but may it not also lead you into many 
errors? I agree with you as to the strong proba- 
bihty concerning the church now called Domi- 
nica; but, as to veneta qua^ I am a sceptic. You 
remember Dean Swift's argument for the antiquity 
of our own language, in that ^Alexander the GreaV 
was so manifestly derived from a passage in the 
conqueror's biography, in which the exclamation 
^all eggs under the grate^ came to be on a certain 
occasion, often and emphatically repeated ! I would 
further remind you of the derivation that hath been 
given to our well known word breeches — in that, 
when they were first worn, it was by the poveri of 
a country, who being bare of riches^ usually bore 
all their riches in their breeches, that is, in this 
their curtailed nether garment ! But, to be more 
serious, you have given to the word Italy a deri- 
vation that would make early Italians raisers of 
cattle ; but you must also bear in mind that others 



162 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST.' 

have given to this word a very different origin ; as 
for example, from one Italus^ a Sicihan chieftain — 
or from the Oscan word Viteliu, which, by drop- 
ping certain letters, and taking up others, became 
Italia! 

^Your etymon, likewise, of Caryatides differs 
from that of Lessing, who derives it from the fact 
that Diana had a temple at Caryatis, and that 
virgins danced in honour of her in the festive 
processions. The architects, ever in search of 
graceful forms, ornamented their temples with 
colonnades, somewhat after the fashion of virgins 
in procession at the feast of Caryatis, perhaps, 
too, with baskets of flowers, &c. on their heads ! 
Now, between the two etymons, who is to decide ? 
and, if decided, perhaps I might ask, cui bonoV 

'Your objection,' said the champion of verbal 
derivations, 'certainly proves too much, since the 
absence of absolute certainty would utterly extin- 
guish nearly all etymology.' 'I should regret 
that result,' said I, 'all that I protest against is 
that ultraism, which seeks in far-fetched and fan- 
tastic roots, and in extremely remote resemblances, 
the origin of names, and then builds thereon 
equally fanciful conclusions and theories, which 
they would call learning and knowledge ! whereas 
the whole may consist of the veriest imaginings 
that cost no little research, which had much better 
have been employed in things more profitable.' 

'I fear you and I are destined never to agree 
on my favourite subject,' said the Englishman,^ 
with infinite bonhomie, 'but I have found great 



*i 



THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 163 

amusement, and equal profit, in this pursuit ; and 
few things are more delightful to me than to look, 
for instance, over the map of England; and, as 
Master Nash saith, with much brain- tossing, and 
skull-breaking, resolve the names therein found, 
by the rules of etymology, and the lights of 
history. Thus, for example, our Yarmouth, of 
^Lenten StufP memory, is said to be derived from 
the river lerus^ at whose Qnouth it is situate — 
hence lernmouth, which by the natural change 
of i into Y, and e into a, becomes Yarmouth.' 

'This may be, as your Master Nash hath said,' 
rejoined I, 'but you will remember that Florence 
is derived, by some, from florentia^ as being 
situate in a very flowery vale, and by others from 
Florentinus, its Roman founder! And, 'who shall 
decide when doctors disagree?' 

'And yet, I would by no means proscribe ety- 
mology; it smacks highly of scholarship, and, 
indeed, is such, being really useful, curious, and 
eminently entertaining, when wholly stripped of 
fancy, and guided alone by judgment and well 
authenticated facts — thus, I cannot object to such 
an etymon as is given to the word musiard. The 
original name of the plant, you know, is sinapis^ 
the pulverized seeds of which the Arabians were 
accustomed to mix with their juice of the grape, 
but more frequently, perhaps, with their arrack or 
rice wine. In after times, when the Italians did 
the same thing, in order to impart a stronger 
pungency to their light wines, they called the 
new compound mosto-ardo — burning must; and, 



164 THE TRAVELLING ETYMOLOGIST. 

as the sinapis itself, was a foreign plant, but little 
known among them, they transferred the name 
of the compound drink to the substance which ii 
they added to the must of their grapes ; and 
hence our word mustard, from mosto-ardo. So, 
likewise, it is not at all improbable that our word 
ebriety — ebrietas^ comes from bria^ the name of 
a well known drinking-cup among the Greeks; 
and not, as Dr. Johnson supposes, from the Greek 
word which signifies to moisten. It is quite 
probable, also, that currants are so called from 1 1 
their having greatly abounded at Corinth; and 
the word buckwheat may be a corruption of beach- 
wheat I — and, in fine, the French word poltron^ 
probably enough, comes from pollux trvMcatus^ 
owing to the fact that some of the people of that 
country, during the feudal ages, preferred to cut 
off their thumbs, to serving in the wars — and 
hence poltron and coward are now synonomous 
words !' 

'I am most happy,' said the etymological tra- 
veller, 'to find our conversation seems to be gra- 
dually unveiling to you the beauties and utilities 
of my favourite study,' — and hereupon our collo- 
quy terminated, for this time, as we had then 
reached the Piazza di Spag?ia; and he retired 
to his lodgings there, I to mine, in the Via di 
Condotti. 



JJ 



BENVENUTO CELLINI. 165 

NOTE XIV. BENVENUTO CELLINI. 

^Benvenuto Cellini !' said I, musingly, as I 
contemplated his statue of Perseus and Medusa, 
in the Piazza del Granduca of Florence, — 'the 
jeweller, engraver, musician, poet, soldier, sculptor, 
and lover; and in all so truly admirable!' But 
what I then thought, and mentally said, though 
now repeated, need not be received, but with some 
allowance — as Italian skies, and the wonders of 
nature and of art, which every where abound in 
this enchanting country, are too apt to overcharge 
the mind with delusive feelings, to admit at once 
of sound and unmixed reflections. 

CeUini was undoubtedly a rare and brilliant 
genius; and no one life, with which I am ac- 
quainted, is so rich as his in the finest materials 
of interest and instruction. And we find them 
so recorded : for he has proved himself the prince 
of autobiographers. How spirited and glowing is 
his narrative, how winning and faith- inspiring his 
candour and veracity, and how truly charming is 
the variety of incidents which chequered his re- 
markable life, from infancy to old age ! It is rare, 
indeed, to find the oft-repeated corruscations of 
exalted genius so constantly followed, as in him, 
by useful and efficient results ; and it is equally so 
to meet the most flattering successes, alternating so 
strangely with the most signal misfortunes. But 
Cellini's destiny, in early life, seemed to take its 
rise from two very trivial causes, and aflfords 
another among a thousand proofs, that a king or 
15 



166 BENVENUTO CELLINI. 

a cobler, a hero or a hermit, a palace or a prison, 
are often as much the offspring of accident, as of 
meritorious exertion, and that the same genius 
which takes one to the scaffold, may, under cir- 
cumstances, place another on the seat of power. 
It seems that Cellini's performances on the Jiute 
were so admirable as to command the strongest 
praises of Pope Clement VII. who summoned him 
into his service ; and that afterwards a dream 
decided the controversy which CelHni had with 
himself then ; aad his faith in dreams gave him 
the first start into life — and how intimately it was 
connected with all that followed may be found in 
his very interesting memoirs. 

But to return to the statue of Perseus. The 
author of this beautiful piece of sculpture was like- 
wise a jeweller, a fine musician, a poet, a brave 
soldier, and an adventurous lover. And, as I gazed 
on the statue, melhought I could easily trace the 
impressions of all these soul-stirring arts. The 
jeweller of those days, it may here be remarked, 
needed a much more exquisite taste, fertility of 
invention, and accuracy of design, than those who 
now bear that name. A cardinal's seal, the gold 
covering of a missal, a crucifix for noble hands, the 
rich devices on a princess' girdle, a magnificent 
chalice for papal processions, the button of a ponti- 
ficial cope, the gorgeous settings of a pope's jewels, 
and the fashioning of his triple diadem, 'were, each 
and all, matters of such high import in those palmy 
days of 'Holy Mother Church,' as to command the 
highest order of talent the world then knew. The 



BENVENUTO CELLINI. 167 

artificer of such graceful ornaments, in which love- 
liness of form, and exquisiteness of workmanship 
were ever to be present, found in sculpture a cog- 
nate art, and one which could not then claim that 
decided superiority accorded to it in earlier times, 
and which it has since reclaimed. Cellini, more- 
over, was doubtless a better sculptor from being 
among the first of flutists, and which he could not 
have been without much music in his soul, and a 
peculiar delicacy of touch, which, when transferred 
from the flute to the block of marble, rendered his 
manipulations so successful. In like manner his 
poetical vein refined his imagination, and imparted 
to his sculpture superadded charms. The chivalry 
and courage of a true soldier also brought their 
offerings to him, and pointed his chissel with that 
matchless daring, freedom, and yet caution in the 
details, which the statue of Perseus so clearly 
manifests; and the passion of the devoted lover 
gave likewise to this great work that glow and 
vitality of expression which we see distinctly 
marked in the victorious sons of Danae. Such 
indeed is the almost indissoluble connection be- 
tween all the liberal arts and sciences, and such 
their dependence on most of the passions and 
affections of the mind, that the muses have ever 
been truly represented as dancing in chorus, and 
are held to be the off'spring of a common parent, 
and the most affectionate of lovely sisters. 

It was no idle fancy then, generated by soft 
Italian skies, and the profusion of beauties that 
every where salute the eye in that favoured land, 



168 BENVENUTO CELLINI. 

which caused me to see in the Perseus, and in the 
works, generally, of this great artist, the lineaments 
of his diversified education and accomplishments, 
and of the various passions that moved the inner 
man. It is well, however, for the traveller, when 
in the privacy of his study in after times, to chas- 
ten his judgment and guard against the control of 
those extraneous and factitious influences, that 
circumstances may create in Italy. In the sober- 
ness of the closet, he may correct those hasty 
opinions, which the crowd of so much loveliness 
of nature and of art is so apt to occasion : for how 
many latent and refined beauties, (discoverable 
alone to the eye of taste,) are spread over this land 
of the clear blue empyrean — over this land of 
mountain snows and flowery vales — this land of 
the vine, the orange, the fig, and the olive ! How 
much is the soul excited in this dominion of lavas 
and of subterranean fires, in this land of ancient 
ruins and of modern luxury, of priestly supersti- 
tions, and of classical and moral associations, — the 
land of painters, of poets, of musicians, of archi- 
tects, and of sculptors — the land of the witcheries 
of fancy, and the sublimities of varied genius — a 
land full of cascades, of grottoes, of the reminis- 
cences of sybils, of dryads, and of nymphs — the 
region of the 'fell Charybdis and the howling 
Scylla' — a land where the sunbeams repose on the 
distant hills, reflecting their varied and gorgeous 
lights from the windows of a thousand habitations, 
fantastically perched on almost inaccessible clifi's, 
and where the twilight lingers on among the green 



BENVENUTO CELLINI. 169 

valleySj as if reluctant to part with so much beauty, 
or to cloud them in the shades of night! 

*Fair Italy, 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree, 
Even in thy desert what is like to thee ? 
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
More rich than other clime's fertility ; 
Thy wreck of glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.* 

Let no philosophic cynic, however, scowl on 
the fancies, so often indulged in by those who are 
fresh from Italy, since it is peculiarly a land of 
fancy; and, perhaps, no stranger has ever main- 
tained there, an undisturbed and sober judgment. 
The classical Eustace certainly indited many false 
conceptions, and some nonsense ; and even the 
chaste, accomplished, terse, and thoughtful For- 
syth, is not without some vain imaginings. If, 
then, I have seen in the productions of Cellini, 
traces of his peculiar education, — if the sculptor 
has shown to my mind the nice manipulations of 
the jeweller, the chaste touches of the engraver, 
the soul of the musician, the fancy of the poet, the 
glow of the lover, the chivalry and courage of the 
soldier, blended with all the peculiar excellences 
that belong to the chissel, suffer me to enjoy my 
fancy, if it be one. Time and absence can, alone, 
cure such aberrations of the judgment. In the 
exact sciences, in morals, and in all opinions 
which essentially affect our happiness and our 
principles, criticism can scarce be too cautious : 
but in matters of mere taste, I would be a latitudi- 
15* 



170 BENVENUTO CELLINI. 

narian, and permit every one to express with free- 
dom, even his most random feelings, his wildest 
opinions — for cui malol If one admires Carlo 
Dolci more than Raphael, and the Last Judgment 
of Michael Angelo more than the Communion of 
Domenichino, whom does it injure? Let each 
give the best reason he can for the faith that is in 
him ; and if it fail to convince, it has done no 
harm ; and if it produce conviction, it can never 
be on the many, if it be really erroneous, so that 
the standard of taste remains unshaken. 

But, to return for a moment to Cellini. The 
bronze group of Perseus and Medusa, with the ad- 
mirable basso-relievo on the pedestal, has always 
been considered his chef d'^ceuvre. In his left hand, 
Perseus firmly holds the snaky head of Medusa, 
reeking with blood; and under his head lies the 
agonized body, the hands and feet of which are en- 
twined in each other, the breasts swelling into high 
relief, and the neck, from which the head had just 
been severed, is pouring out its vital current. The 
right arm, in demi-repose, holds the victorious 
sword, and the whole figure is naked except the 
head, which bears an appropriate and beautiful hel- 
met; and the feet, which have the winged sandals 
of Mercury. The two faces are strikingly contrast- 
ed with each other. That of the Gorgon with its 
horrid serpent locks, is distilling blood, and is fulf 
of the contortions of pain ; the other is instinct 
with the high soul we look for in the son of Jupi- 
ter and Danae, in the moment, too, of his triumph 
over the formidable race of Medusa ! The outline 



BENVENUTO CELLINI. 171 

of the whole group is extremely graceful and tran- 
chant — but, if the merest amateur may venture to 
find any fault, I should unhesitatingly condemn, as 
in extreme bad taste, the attempted representation 
of the flow of blood from Medusa's head^ grasped 
by Perseus, and from the neck of the body on 
which he tramples ! The gush of blood is not 
only excessive in the particular instance, but is 
essentially dehors the art of sculpture, and belongs 
exclusively to the painter, or to the poet. It is not 
possible to represent in bronze, or even in marble, 
a 'flowing current of the purple life ;' nor was there 
the least occasion for it. The drops of blood from 
which Pegasus and Chrysaor are fabled to have 
sprung, might have been sufiiciently represented, 
and truthfully, too, but in a manner far more sub- 
dued, and better suited to the powers of the art ; 
for no imagination can realize, in the solid and 
colourless mass of bronze or marble, a flowing 
stream from veins and arteries ! and where would 
be the essential difierence, were a sculptor to peril 
his reputation in an attempt to present in such ma- 
terials, the falls of Tirni or of Tivoli ! Nor is it 
within the province of sculpture to copy nature ; 
but merely so to represent the contours of loveli- 
ness, of grace, of deformity, and of subUmity ; and 
so to depict by lines, such lights and shades, as 
reveal the feelings and passions of the soul, and 
produce in the mind a state generative of thought ; 
and, through the medium of imagination and judg- 
ment, to fill up, as it were, the perfect outlines. 
Illusion is to be eflected by the sculptor's art, 



172 BENVENUTO CELLINI. 

neither by a copy, nor yet even by such an imita- 
tion, as aims at the realities of life; the impres- 
sion to be produced is an abstraction only, not an 
accurate imitation, else would it be in taste to 
colour statues, to give them draperies of various 
hues, to insert eyes of glass, or other materials, 
true to the life; but all these have been condemned 
of genuine taste. In fine, sculpture, be it in wood, 
marble, or bronze, can recognize but a single 
material, but a single colour — and all gilded appli- 
ances, all metallic ornaments, all attempts at copy- 
ing the works of nature or of art, in her colour- 
ings, and m.inute details, are foreign, wholly, to the 
sculptor's province. And though Cellini has not 
attempted either, he has still violated, as I think, 
a cognate law, in his vain endeavour to imitate the 
blood flowing en masse, from the neck and head of 
Medusa — an instance of false taste that mars the 
perfect harmony of the rest; and which, in the pic- 
torial art, or in the more humble one of the worker 
in wax, would have proved a faithful copy of the 
reality. 

Cellini's autobiography, as I have stated, is one 
of incessant interest, and of truly admirable execu- 
tion. Never was there a more naive and faithful 
history of individual life. His own great genius, 
his enthusiasm, his brilliant successes, his sad mis- 
fortunes, and the freaks of his own indomitable 
temper, are all most graphically portrayed — nor is 
he at all sparing in his delineation of those little 
great men, whose envy and malignity, or whose 
narrow minds so often marred, and sometimes 



BENVENUTO CELLINI. 173 

proved fatal, to his happiness. His intercourse 
with the Grand Duke of Tuscany, (his unworthy- 
patron,) the gilded but miserable slavery in which 
he was there held, his numerous vexations and 
disappointed hopes, the charlatan deportment of 
several of his patrons, their ample promises, flatter- 
ing words, and slender performances, are all told 
with evident truth, and with rare felicity. 

But, all these matters were detailed in too unvar- 
nished a manner for poor Cellini's safety, had he 
published his memoirs during his life ! And even 
after his death, the manuscript remained in dusty 
oblivion for nearly two centuries ! We are now fully 
informed of the many base and mean contrivances 
practised on Cellini by those who desired to profit 
by the labours of his genius, without any adequate 
consideration ; and the noble successors of the 
Grand Duke Cosmo, now in power, can scarce 
read Cellini's pages, as we should hope, without 
a deep blush for the ignoble treatment which so 
great a master had received at the hands of their 
progenitor, and countryman, and without a lively 
zeal to perpetuate the lustre of the artist's fame, and 
even to honour and enrich his descendants, if there 
be any now worthy of being so called. 

The narrative which Cellini gives of the com- 
mencement, progress and completion of his Perseus 
and Medusa, and of his patron's base tergiversation 
respecting the honorarium to be given for it, which 
ended in a curiously devised subtraction of a por- 
tion even of the admitted paltry sum of thirty- 
five hundred crowns, to which, from ten thousand. 



174 BENVENUTO CELLINI. 

it had been gradually reduced, presents, no doubt, 
a faithful picture, not only of his patron, but of the 
genius of the times, in which magnificence and 
meanness, lavish promises, and curtailed perfor- 
mances, flattery and threats, were united to bring 
poor artists into the toils of their nominally noble 
patrons. 

To the lovers of genius and the fine arts, it may 
be consolatory to know that Cellini, after a life of 
the most romantic adventures, charged with the 
sports of evil and of good fortune, in which he 
was often an object of the bitterest persecution, or 
the most malignant jealousies, and in which he 
endured attempts at poisoning, and other assassi- 
nations, and suffered a most savage imprisonment 
in the very castle of St. Angelo, which he had so 
valiantly defended — died in a ripe old age, and was 
buried with much funeral pomp, in the church of 
the Annunziata, at Florence ; and further, that a 
funeral oration in praise of his life, his moral and 
intellectual qualities, and his great works, was pro- 
nounced in the presence of an assembled multi- 
tude, accompanied by the whole body of academi- 
cians, and the company of sculptors — all of whom, 
with eager ears took in, and with willing hearts 
responded to, the many kind things that were said 
of Benvenuto Cellini — now that he reposed with 
the illustrious dead! 

*After life's fitful fever he sleeps well : 

Nor steel, nor poison, 
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing 
Can touch him further/ 



PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 175 

NOTE XV. — PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 

Few subjects are of more intense interest than 
those which relate to the various modes of inter- 
ment adopted in all nations and ages — the rites 
and ceremonials which often accompanied them — 
the holy and sometimes fantastic superstitions 
which, from time to time, arose — and, above all, 
the sublime images and beautiful fancies of the 
priests, of the poets, the painters and the sculptors, 
when Death, the Grave, and the Resurrection were 
the themes of their deepest and most solitary 
thoughts. 

How much of philosophy and solemn reflec- 
tion, what varied and briUiant imaginations, what 
holy and touching sentiments, what fearful fore- 
bodings, what fascinating hopes, what sweet re- 
pose, what thrilling terror hover around the things 
of death and the grave ! Would we be fully 
persuaded of man's constant and ardent pant- 
ing after even terrene immortality, we have but 
to visit the splendid mausoleums — the sepulchral 
cities under ground — the towering and ever endu- 
ring pyramids — the cenotaphs and gorgeous sarco- 
phagi — the chapels — the chambers of repose — the 
campo santos, and the modern but no less beautiful 
cemeteries of Pere la Chaise^ of Liverpool^ of Mount 
Auburn^ near Boston, and of Laurel Hilly in the 
vicinity of Philadelphia ; these, all speak to us in 
language never to be mistaken, — in a tongue com- 
prehended by nations, and lineages, and tribes, of 
all times, and of all creeds ; for, be they Pagans, or 



176 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. m 

Jews, or Christians, learned or illiterate, man is 
ever the same in his dread of annihilation — in his | j 
abhorrence of oblivion — in his desire to be remem- 
bered, or in some way known in after times — 
and finally, in his hopes of earthly as well as of 
heavenly perpetuity. A feeling so universal, so 
indomitable, so truly natural, can scarce be wrong; 
and, like many of our most noble sentiments and 
principles of action, becomes so, only by the per- 
version of ambition, or the abuse of riches. The 
grateful living should respect the virtuous dead — 
and the virtuous dying should have the hope of 
being gratefully remembered: and though the 
vicious and the ignoble are sometimes entombed 
in richly sculptured marbles, and repose along side f 
the more humble slabs which cover the remains of t 

.k 

their virtuous superiors, still, the congregated mem- 
bers in these cities of the dead, are not wanting in 
the means of our justly distinguishing the merito- ^^ 
rious ; whilst they afford to those, of meek and for- 
giving temper, fit occasions for the holy ejacula- 
tions — requiescat in pace-^sii ilia terra levisl Well 
may we say with Sir Thomas Brown — 'Man is a % 
noble animal^ splendid in ashes, and pompous in the 
grave — solemnizing nativities and deaths with equal 
lustre^ and not omitting ceremonies of bravery hi 
the infamy of his nature,'* 

It were indeed, a vain hope, by strong walls, 
and the most solid monuments, to preserve intact 
from the all-consuming influences of time, either 
the remains or the memories, of even the most f 
illustrious of our dead. Families, and tribes, and 



PUBLIC CEMETERIES, 177 

dynasties, and nations, are ultimately and surely 
lost in the depths of this great invisible ocean, 
which is without limits ; and when even Egyptian 
ingenuity, with its pyramids, and subterranean ma- 
sonry — its well cemented sarcophagi, and bodies 
embalmed in numerous cerements and 'sweet con- 
sistencies,' — in many aromatic and desiccative pre- 
parations, has almost wholly failed to perpetuate 
either the one or the other, all that we can reason- 
ably look for in our similar endeavours to confound 
eternity with time, is such a preservation of their 
memory as shall probably outlive all generations 
with whom we can claim even an ideal interest 
or sympathy : — for, when 'Nimrod is lost in Orion, 
and Osyris in the dog-star,' what boots it to talk of 
monume»nts, or to hope for a patent from oblivion? 
And here again, hath the same Sir Thomas Brown 
beautifully said, ^all is vanity^ feeding the windy 
and folly: for the Egyptian mummies^ lohich Cam- 
byses, or time hath spai^ed^ avarice now consumeth. 
Mummy hath become merchandise^ Misraim cures 
wounds^ and Pharaoh is sold for balsams P 

And though these are truths which time hath 
revealed in a thousand ways, and assuring us so 
must it for ever remain — yet is not the obligation 
in the least diminished, to pay such respect to the 
remains and memories of our departed relatives, 
friends, patriots, and illustrious citizens, as shall 
testify our own love and gratitude, and veneration — 
whilst it may afford to many future generations, 
the chance of reaping from it whatever of instruc- 
tion, to heart and mind, can be thus conveyed. 
16 



178 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 

I always think better of that man's heart, who 
in the midst of life contemplates its close, and who 
turns from the toil of worldly strife, to provide a 
secure resting place for the bodies of those he 
loves, when their spirits have sought, or shall seek 
their higher abodes — it is a thoughtful provision, 
well adapted calmly to seduce the mind from pre- 
sent enjoyments, to the contemplation of the far 
greater riches of eternity. Is it not a setting up, 
upon the great highway of life, a visible and 
enduring beacon, pointing us to the country we 
approach, — a country of assembled nations, the 
land, not only of our forefathers, but of all the 
sons of men ; and admonishing us, not only of its 
reality, but of the certainty and rapidity with 
which we are all coming to it? 

How appropriate is it in the father of a family, 
who, to the establishment which it is the labour of 
his life to afford his children, is equally mindful 
to add that last gift which seems to make his pro- 
vision so complete ! — In time, such a homage from 
the living has not only the gracefulness which ever 
attends the performance of a duty, but it carries 
with it a silent invitation so to use the rest of life's 
goods, that this last may not be unhonoured. 
Every one, moreover, is extremely apt to look more 
kindly on this post mortem providence of others, 
from a lurking desire that his own mortal remains 
should repose in decent and unmolested quietude. 

For myself I confess, I have none of that 
vaunted stoicism which inculcates entire insensi- 
bility to the fate of the body after death; nor 



PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 179 

would I claim association- with those who desire to 
advance science, by affecting to know no difference 
between the quiet of the grave, and the rude as- 
saults of resurrectionists, or the subsequent mani- 
pulations in an anatomical theatre ! 

A life adorned in its course by the practice of 
christian virtues, and prolonged through many liv- 
ing generations of affectionate relatives, to a vigor- 
ous old age — a death-bed, free from bodily pain 
and sustained by the mens conscia recti — a peaceful 
sepulture, without ostentation, but suited in all 
respects to the character and station in life — and 
finally, a tomb sacred and for ever undisturbed, 
seem to fill up the measure of man's just hopes — 
the design of existence on this side of eternity. 
Indifference, therefore, to respectful and enduring 
interment, ought to shock our sensibilities ; whilst 
the contemplation of those desecrations of the 
grave occasioned by the encroachments of cities, 
the opening of new streets, the cold and calculating 
exercise of corporate or municipal power, and the 
disgusting venal offerings to the dissecting tables ; 
or, in fine, any other cause that brings us to a 
second intimacy with the remains of the inhumed, 
is so strongly revolting to every feeling and well- 
ordered mind, that secured cemeteries are destined, 
as we think, soon to become among the most 
favoured and prominent features in the civilization 
of the present age. 

To me, then, it is very agreeable to see my 
fellow mortals, (with the thoughtfulness of men 
who are born to die, and the courage of men who 



180 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 

have so lived as to banish the fear of death,) pre- 
pare their own sepulchres, and those for such as 
are most dear to them — and, in so doing, assemble 
about the hallowed spot, all those appropriate orna- 
ments and emblems of mortality and of immor- 
tality^ best suited to awaken and cherish mournful 
feelings in regard to the former, and the brightest 
hopes as to the latter. 

The refined nations of antiquity paid great 
honours to their dead. The expensive embalm- 
ing, the eternal pyramids, gorgeous mausoleums, 
and deeply carved sarcophagi of the Egyptians 
and Greeks — the many chaste tombs that line the 
Roman ways, as those of Cecilia Metella, of Scipio, 
Caius Cestius, Augustus, and of Hadrian, which 
in part remain ; as also those recently revealed, 
in perfect integrity, in the streets of Pompeii, 
and the numerous beautiful chapels, and extensive 
catacombs, and chambers of repose of the early 
christians, and the proud sepulchres erected in | j 
the primitive churches, are striking proofs of their 
deep veneration for those mortal tenements, once 
instinct with the souls of heroes, of scholars, and \ 
of those whom they best loved. j 

It is, however, not a httle remarkable how many * 
ancient tombs, and even monuments to perpetuate 
other more important events than the death of 
individuals, are wholly destitute of inscription! 
How many thousand sarcophagi are there, of mar- 
ble, granite, or alabaster, with their five sides per- 
fect, and adorned with much laborious and goodly 
sculpture, and yet no inscription to tell us that this 



I 



PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 181 

is Hector's, that Priam's, this Homer's and that 
Alexander's ! The urns, moreover, which con- 
tained their ashes, and the tombs which received 
them, are often equally silent as to whose remains 
they honoured and preserved — the tradition being 
presumed to be co-extensive with the endurance of 
the solid marble ; and, as one Forimondus saith, 
^sepulchrorum nunquam intermoritur memoria' — 
the memory of the matter to be perpetuated by the 
tombstones, continues for ever. It is quite proba- 
ble moreover, that but for this omission, many 
monuments and tombs would have been more 
carefully preserved ; we might now have the mon- 
ument of stones which Joshua commanded the 
Israelites to erect, as a memorial unto their chil- 
dren forever; and also that mentioned by Euse- 
bius, as raised by the pious and grateful woman 
whom our Saviour cured of the bloody issue ; and, 
perhaps, a hundred others, which, being without 
inscription, could not be preserved by vague tradi- 
tions, and became especially liable to destruction, 
after the traditions themselves were gone. The 
Romans, in this respect, were generally more care- 
ful, though some of the tombs of Pompeii are (as 
well as I remember) without a name. 

Public cemeteries were established by the an- 
cients, and were no less magnificent than exten- 
sive. That on the border of the lake Acherusia, 
in Egypt, is celebrated for its tribunal composed 
of forty-two judges, who passed sentence on the 
life and character of the deceased— which, if 
unfavorable, excluded them from interment in the 
16* 



182 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 

cemetery beyond the lake, and consigned them 
to an ignominious grave in Tartarus ! and, in 
like manner, the Greeks had their Acheron, or 
Elisout, and their Tartarus. But, among the nu- 
merous cemeteries of more modern days, and of 
our own time, we have no other barrier to inter- 
ment within their walls, than that which denies 
all christian burial, viz : self-murder — and, some- 
times, execution for an infamous crime. 

The Catholics, however, in their cemeteries, go 
a step further, and occlude all who have not died 
within the pale of their church; and hence it is 
that, in many of the continental Catholic countries, 
there are public cemeteries dedicated to those who 
are strangers to their faith. The Campo- Santos ^ 
so usual in Europe, are among the most interesting 
objects that arrest a traveller's attention — some are 
public, others appertain to certain monastic estab- 
lishments; but wherever found, they manifest the 
respect the living would pay to the dead. In the 
cloistered cemetery at Pisa, besides its gothic 
splendour, its sculptures, and its venerable fres- 
coes, piety sought to give additional interest to 
the place, by earth brought by the crusaders from 
Jerusalem ; and this holy soil, though nine feet 
deep, is still preserved with great care from petty 
transportations. It is computed that not less than 
nine hundred vessels, such as were used in the 
thirteenth century, must have been required for 
the conveyance of these two acres of ^sanctified 
mould !' 



PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 183 

In the Carthusian Monastery, of the Certosa, 
near Bologna, there is also a cemetery, which, 
though not large, is of singular beauty. The 
entrance is by an appropriate portal, on the piers 
of which are placed a colossal statue of grief. 
The walls are shelved, and on these are deposited 
numerous skulls of the Carthusians, who have 
died in the monastery during, perhaps, many cen- 
turies. These are labelled with the name of the 
individuals to whom they belonged. The whole 
establishment is filled with flowers, with orange, 
citron, and myrtle trees; and more resembles an 
odoriferous conservatory of nature's most beautiful 
shrubs and flowers, than a sepulchre, or repository 
for man's mortal remains ! Beautiful thought ! 
thus to blend with the mementoes of death the 
fairest and freshest of Flora's garniture, — verdant 
and flowery canopies impending over tombs, with 
their mouldering and perishing relics ! 

Another mode of preserving the memory of the 
dead, and one a good deal practised in Europe, 
consists in a careful preparation of the bones, and 
arranging them in a variety of fantastic forms, as 
lamps, chandeliers, pyramids, wreathes, &c., and 
decorating therewith the walls of some gloomy 
crypt, or subterraneous cemetery! I remember 
my mixed sensations of astonishment, horror, and 
gratification at these ingenious and curious fancies, 
on entering the catacomb of the Capuchin Monas- 
tery at Rome. My belted, shorn, and sandalled 
guide recognized the bones of some friend, in 
many of these devices ! and, in certain conspi- 



184 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 

cuous corners, were the perfect skeletons, perhaps, 
of some more holy father of the church. As 
well as I could learn, there were four progressive 
stages to which each body was subjected — firsts 
an ordinary interment, for a year or more — second- 
ly, interment under holy earthy brought from Jeru- 
salem by the crusaders — thirdly, the entire skele- 
ton, duly cleansed and prepared, and then placed 
for some years, in an appropriate part of the crypt; 
and lastly, an arrangement of the bones in innu- 
merable forms, to grace the walls, and to admonish 
all comers in, that, 

*When our souls shall leave this dwelling, 
The glory of one fair and virtuous action 
Is above all the 'scutcheons on our tomb, 
Or silken banners over us.' 

I have been led to the foregoing reflections by 
a recent visit to Laurel Hill Cemetery, a noble 
and most praiseworthy enterprise by a few of the 
living, in behalf of the many who are dead, or 
to die. 

Not all the marble magnificence of the proud 
city in whose environs it is situate, her Banks 
and her Exchanges, — nor yet the splendor of her 
ornate Churches, nor yet those monuments of her 
benevolence — her Colleges, and her Hospitals, nor 
her far-famed Water-works, could fill my mind 
with half the admiration, or enlarge my soul 
with a tythe of the salutary train of thoughts, 
as the moral beauty, the classic embellishments, 
and the sacred purposes of this delightful Reposi- 
tory of the Dead ! This spot is forever dedicated 



PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 185 

to the uses of a public Cemetery, in which are 
to repose the wise, the good and the powerful — 
and possibly the simple-headed, the mere world- 
ling, the recluse, and the half- forgotten, who are 
living — to be born — and to die in this now power- 
ful and growing metropolis. It consists of an 
enclosed space of about thirty acres, comprising 
every variety of scenery, elevated in situation, 
and, in all respects of a proper soil. It is distant 
some three miles from the city, upon a wide 
avenue, known as the Ridge road ; and in ap- 
proaching it the visiter passes the Girard College, 
and; by a slight deflection may stop at Fairmount, 
the Prison, (fcc. &c. 

The entrance to the cemetery is by an arched 
portal, passing through a building of great archi- 
tectural beauty, and which at once strikes the 
beholder as peculiarly appropriate in style and 
embellishment. In the front it presents an im- 
posing colonnade of eight columns of the Roman 
Doric order, surmounted by a correspondent en- 
tablature ; this, again, supports a ballustrade, and 
the whole is finished by placing immediately over 
the gateway a funeral urn, appropriate in its de- 
sign, and beautiful as an ornament. In the portico, 
upon each side of the gateway, is a niche for the 
reception of emblematic statuary, and the whole 
effect of the entrance-building is made still more 
grand and imposing, by a continuation upon each 
flank of a series of lesser columns, forming a colon- 
nade in the same general style as the building itself, 
and which apparently much magnifies its extent. 



186 PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 



¥. 



Once inducted through this chaste and imposing 
portalj and pursuing his walk but a few steps, 
the visiter finds himself in the midst of a scene 
of surpassing natural beauty. Lawns of velvet 
turf, gravel walks stretching off every where, 
seemingly into the entanglements of a labyrinth ; 
deep and impenetrable shades from lofty oaks; 
the tristful grace of bending willows; the perfumes 
of many flowers; and the melody of birds, all 
unite in forming a scene as truly delightful to the 
senses, as it is genial to those sweet tempers of Jtj 
the mind, which are so apt to manifest themselves 
in these abodes of the lamented and honoured 
dead. 

Upon the west side of the enclosure the scene ; 
becomes indescribably beautiful. The spectator 
approaches over grounds nearly level, until he 
stands upon a bank whose precipitous sides are 
covered with massive rocks, time-worn and moss- 
grown ; whilst, here and there, are seen some 
hardy evergreens which have thrust their roots 
within the clefts, and drawing thence their slen- 
der sustenance, expand above in shady trees, or 
in more humble shrubs. Here the kalmia delights 
to expand its showy blossoms, and the hemlocks, 
pines and spruces blend their foliages with the 
broader leaves of numerous other trees — whilst 
every little tuft of earth hanging loosely on the 
rocks, is garnished with flowers of various hues. 

At the foot of the precipice glides the placid 
Schuylkill, here widened to the dimensions of a 
lake, whose unruffled bosom sends back to the 



I 



PUBLIC CEMETERIES. 187 

eye of the beholder, the reflected image of the 
beauties which encompass him. The whole is 
expressive of deep repose, rather heightened than 
dispelled, by the distant view of commercial acti- 
vity on the opposite banks, where the passage 
to and fro of the canal boats gives animation to 
the landscapes, whilst intervening distance 'lends 
enchantment to the view,' by taking from the 
busy stir its noise and grossness. It is this rocky 
hill side with its trees, its shrubbery, its numerous 
flowers, vines and tendrils — all of nature's own 
planting, that to me was the most enchanting — 
there, on a tiny peninsula, jutting somewhat into 
the river, I mused for a while, and thought that 
even a grave, nestled in so recluse a spot, had 
many charms : this, of all the rest, seemed to me 
the most attractive for a burial place ; and indeed 
the whole hill-side seems destined, at no remote 
day, to be the favourite spot — and, like the banks 
of the Nile, will spread its monuments and tombs 
from the water's edge to the very summits of these 
rocks. 

The improvement of the property, with refer- 
rence to its uses, appears to have been most judi- 
ciously attended to. There are spacious carriage 
houses for shelter from inclement weather; here, 
also, are receiving-vaults for the temporary depo- 
site of bodies, from any cause, not prepared for 
formal interment — a neat gothic chapel for the 
performance of funeral service when desired — 
commodious rooms for the retirement of relatives 
and mourning friends, with other apartments for 



188 EVENTS HOW RELATED TO 

the reception of those attendants at the obsequies, 
not so closely connected with the deceased — and, 
finally, various superintendents and competent 
agents are ever present to provide for, and conduct 
the business and solemn duty of interment. 

Such pious and tasteful manifestations of respect 
from the living to the dead, must originate and 
be sustained, in our country, by individual enter- 
prise. We have no imperial treasures, no rich 
ecclesiastical revenues, no conventual fraternities 
for such works of splendour and munificence ; 
but, with us, every citizen who has a heart, who 
loves his wife, children, and friends ; all who have 
refined sentiments, and who would do honour to 
the memory of the sage, the statesman, the war- 
rior and the patriot, lend a willing aid to the 
consecration of repositories, in which are to lie 
the venerated remains of their distinguished coun- 
trymen, of their matrons, their sons, and their 
lovely daughters. 



NOTE XVI. EVENTS, HOW RELATED TO REMOTE 

CIRCUMSTANCES. 

'Do not talk to me of chance^ said Pamphilus, 
'sound philosophy knows of no such thing ; for, if 
by chance you simply mean an unknown cause^ I 
agree with you — but if you use the word, as Mr. 
Hume has done, to denote the absence of any 
cause^ it is obviously absurd.' In this I could not 
but concur with Pamphilus, as every event must 
have its cause, however inscrutable that may be. 



REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. 189 

But he proceeded : ^So far from nature tolerating 
such a thing as chance, I agree with Leibnitz, and 
believe that all causes and all events that ever 
existed, or that ever shall exist, are allied; and, 
therefore is it that I insist upon my previous 
remark which seems so much to have surprised 
you, that had dancing been wholly unknown, 
John the Baptist would never have been be- 
headed ! in reply to this you have merely spoken 
of chances ! — ^Uut, is it not manifest that the dan- 
cing of Herodias' daughter Salome, caused plea- 
sure to Herod — which pleasure caused his promise 
to the niece — which promise, (after the fashion of 
the times,) caused the oath— which oath affected 
the Tetrarch's conscience, and which conscience 
occasioned the beheading of the Baptist, when it 
was demanded of Herod, in execution of his pro- 
mise? and here, as you find, are all the links 
united, from the dancing down to the death !' 

I had often heard Pamphilus discourse thus 
upon his favourite notion of the ^Law of Conti- 
nuity^ derived from the German philosopher whom 
he had just named. 'The dancing of Herodias' 
daughter, no doubt,' replied I, 'was a fact con- 
nected with the death in point of circumstance; 
and all events must have their circumstances — 
but whether every circumstance be a cause, and 
whether sound philosophy directs us to connect 
them all, ad infinitum as links in a chain of causes 
essential to produce a given eflfect, is the question 
between us. You should also bear in mind the 
Tetrarch's anger against John — his unlawful love 
17 



190 EVENTS, HOAV RELATED TO 

for Herodias — her desire to be avenged on the 
Baptist, who had opposed the union — that John 
was then in prison at her instance — that Herod 
sought the death, but feared the muhitude, as 
they regarded John as a prophet — and that, when 
the request was made by the niece of her uncle, 
at Herodias' solicitation, that the Baptist's head 
should be given in a charger, the dancing was a 
mere collateral circumstance, which set all the 
antecedent causes into active operation. 

'But, under your Law of Continuity, to say that 
had dancing been unknown, the Baptist would 
have lived, is to make the whole universe a mere 
machine — for you should also remember that 
Herodias might not have made the murderous 
suggestion — her daughter might have refused the 
cruel agency, if made — Herod's conscience might 
have insisted that the request was altogether with- 
out the limits of the promise — and yet the Baptist 
might have met the same fate from an hundred 
other causes.' 'What you have said,' rejoined 
Pamphilus, 'is very true, if you look merely at 
the surface of things, — but no one of your poten- 
tials did iiappen, and I insist tliai not one of them 
could have happened ; what has happened is the ^ 
only thing that ever could have happened ; all 
circumstances are causes, for or against an event, 
and every event must have happened — an antici- 
pated event that has not happened, could not have 
happened ; and these positions are all proved by 
Leibnitz's ^Principle of the Sufficient Reason^ by 
his doctrine of ^Pre-established Harmony ^^ and his 



i 



REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. 191 

great ^Law of Continuity'' — all of which clearly 
establish three things, j^r^^, that nothing can hap- 
pen without a reason why it should be so, rather 
than the contrary; secondly^ that there is a fixed 
series of thoughts, desires, emotions, volitions, &c. 
each with correspondent actions of the body, so 
admirably suited to each other, that they all seem 
to be the combinations of mere cause and effect; 
and, thirdly^ the crowning law of continuity gives 
the like fixed concatenation as between all other 
existences, events, and truths ; so that every thing, 
moral as well as physical, that exists, ever did 
exist, or which ever shall exist, is thus connected. 

'Be not surprised, then, when I say that, as 
chance is unknown in nature, as, indeed, you 
have admitted, I seek for what the w^orld calls 
causes of any event, in every circumstance, in all 
time, that can be in any way connected with 
it. In the whole universe there is not the least 
saltus — no chasm ; and if the death of the Baptist 
be ascribed by me to the invention of dancing, 
this 'poetry of motion' is itself connected with 
myriads of other things, up to the first creation 
of all things ; and the beheading of the Baptist, 
on the other hand, is in like manner allied to 
innumerable other things, down to the present 
hour, and so will be to the end of time !' 

As it has been my good and ill fortune, to have 
argued with sensible and learned men, as well as 
with blockheads, a thousand times, and never yet 
met with a solitary instance of a victory being 
conceded by either party, to either class of arguers. 



192 EVENTS, HOW RELATED TO 

I found myself but little stimulated to further exer- 
tion. The pride of opinion, the fascinations of 
sophistry, the impatience of contradiction, the mor- 
tification at being out-argued, and the tenacity with 
which a theory is ever maintained, are, each and 
all, quite too powerful to give the least hope of an 
admitted ^lo triumphans* to either party — so that 
I dechned all further discussion with my 'learned 
Theban,' further than, somewhat jocosely to ask 
him a few questions. 'Had you been a Roman,* 
said I, 'would you have charged upon Scipio the 
crime of all those disturbances, and seditions raised 
by the Gracchi? For, you know, had not this 
Scipio married his daughter to Tiberius Gracchus, 
whose offspring were these two famous brothers, 
there would have been no Gracchi, and conse- 
quently, no seditions — ergo^ on your principle, 
Scipio is criminal ; for, if circumstances are causes, 
and causes produce effects, and effects produce 
mischief, how do you get rid of imputabilityl^ 
'Again, would you reward those unnatural 
brothers of Eudoxia for having turned her off 
upon the world, whereupon the Emperor Theo-|| 
dosius married her — since, unless she had been ' 
driven from her home, she had never seen Con- 
stantinople, and never have been raised to such| 
honours? And further, upon your argument,' 
how much thanks must have been really due by', 
Joseph to his brethren, for that cruelty, which, - 
as you know, made him governor over all Egypt! 
Joseph, indeed, forgave his brethren, and lavished 
* Vide Cidro de Jiivent. 



REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. 193 

kindnesses upon them, but surely, these were 
gratuitous; and yet your system requires one of 
two things as inevitable, either that there is no 
such thing as merit and demerit, and consequently, 
no just reward or punishment ; or, secondly, that 
all who have in any way remotely caused evil 
or good, and even those who have caused evil out 
of good, or good out of evil, merit in the one 
case punishment, in the other two cases, reward ! 
Eudoxia, then, and Joseph, were bound to reward 
their brothers, as, in both cases, their cruelty was 
the cause, under your doctrine, of their signal 
success in life, making the one an empress, the 
other a powerful governor! 

*And still further, do you really suppose, Pam- 
philus, that Henry IV. of France was murdered 
by Ravillac, merely because two thousand years 
before that event some geese had cackled in the 
capitol ?* — and yet these geese cackled at the very 
time the capitol was assaulted by the Gauls, and 
thus saved Rome ! The subsequent ascendency 
of the empire enabled it to foster the christian 
religion — France became christianized — and Ravil- 
lac hence became inspired with those mistaken 
motives concerning that religion, which induced 
him to become a regicide ! Nay, Pamphilus, your 
gracious self would never have been born, and 
certainly not as an American, nor would there 
have been any American Revolution, had not a 
Dutch ship from Guinea, with some natives of 
that country, visited our shores ! Your own inge- 

* Vide Bentham's Principles of Morals. 

17* 



194 EVENTS, HOW RELATED TO 

nuity in this kind of work^ will enable you at once 
to supply all the intermediate circumstances, and 
thus complete your argument! And I also, have 
to thank your theory, for letting me know why I 
am here myself — for, I now clearly perceive how 
my own birth in this happy land, is connected 
with a cause that dates back at least two centuries 
ago, in that M. d'Aubigne was then a distinguish- 
ed Huguenot leader in France ! !' 

'How is that,' exclaimed Pamphilus, with invo- 
luntary surprise. 'Oh, nothing more simple; for, i 
had not one Francoise d'Aubigne, his grand- f 
daughter, (afterwads the Marchioness de Main- 
tenon) been born in a prison, and in 1651, when 
quite young, been married to the famous Scarron, 
then aged, infirm, and deformed, and afterwards 
to Louis XIV. — the revocation of the edict of 
Nantes by that monarch, in 1685, would never 
have taken place — and it was that very revocation 
which brought my grandfather to these shores ; 
and thus, as you perceive, every link in the chain i 
is complete ; I have to thank the D'Aubigne's for 
now conversing with you! My good Pamphihis, , 
your argument proves quite too mnch, and I 
always vehemently suspect any mode of reasoning 
that seems so compliantly to prove almost any 
thing. And yet, I frankly admit, the subject we 
are on is highly curious, and not without its diffi- 
culties — but 1 trust a sober and well regulated 
mind will be able to detect the fallacies of your 
theory, especially as it leads to the gloomiest of all I 
philosophy — to the most rigid fatalism the world 



REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. 195 

has ever known ; for it binds equally all intelli- 
gences in heaven and upon earth; nay, even Deity 
himself, in a mechanical system of existence, as 
repugnant to common sense, as it is certainly 
shocking to every sound feeling of the heart.' — < 
And so our colloquy terminated. 

But, as I have since thought somewhat of the 
matter, I will note a few additional remarks, as the 
subject, to some thin minds, has proved not a little 
mischievous ! 

There can be no doubt an argument on Pam- 
philus' principles, diminishes in value, and may 
become utterly worthless, when carried to its ex- 
tremest point, as by invoking causes and princi- 
ples so far-fetched as to prevent the mind from 
contemplating a thousand other causes that may 
equally, and even more, have operated. So also, 
on the other hand, it may be conceded that a very 
trifling matter may be the proximate cause of very 
extraordinary events : — but, in such cases, it is 
only the torch applied to the magazine, and is that 
last or finishing cause which, though in itself 
almost invisible, has set all the other antecedent 
causes into efficient actions. In this view of the 
matter a philosopher will not neglect causes very 
remote, nor pass by the last or proximate cause, 
however inconsiderable it may in itself be. And 
yet he should be certain that all are causes connect- 
ed with the event. But the whole of them com- 
bined, though they ascend very high, and become 
extremely numerous and some of them equally 
trifling, can never justify the adoption of the fan- 



196 EVENTS, HOW RELATED TO 

ciful and wild theory of Leibintz, who, availing 
himself of the popular tendency to be carried away 
by terse phrases and uncurrent terras^ threw around 
his theories the mystery and vagueness which so 
often result from names — and hence was it that 
his 'pre-established harmony,' and his ^law of con- 
tinuity,' (phrases so easily pronounced) gave to his 
pernicious doctrines the charm of novelty, and a 
higher distinction than they would have attained, 
had they been set forth to the popular ear in all 
their naked absurdity. Among other things, I 
have heard it said that Louis XVI. would not 
have met his unhappy fate, had it not been for 
the suppression of the religious orders in 1782, 
by Joseph II. of Austria ! 

Now, in this and numerous like cases, a careful • 
examination of all the intermediate links, may pos- 1 
sibly reveal a connection, where at the first view, 
the matter may appear so remotely extravagant 
as to sound eminently ridiculous ! This mode of j 
speaking is, also, sometimes rather figurative, than 1 
designed to be oflfered as philosophically and his- 
torically accurate. Thus, it is certainly too peremp- 
tory for an historian (though not out of place for 
the orator) to say, that the blood of Lucretia put - 
an end to kingly power at Rome ; that its form of | 
government was changed by a debtor's appearing 
before the people covered with wounds ; that 
decemviral power was terminated at the sight of 
Virginia; that the presentation of the mangled 
body, and the bloody robes of Cassar, enslaved 
Rome — and yet such round expressions seldom 



REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. 197 

produce any erroneous views on sensible minds, 
as the more general and antecedent causes will 
readily occur to them ; and moreover, as there is 
here no design really to attribute such momentous 
effects to causes so inadequate to their production. 

Whilst, therefore, I would differ from Pamphilus 
toto ccelo^ in invoking the Leibnitzian absurdity, 
there can be no doubt that the chain of circum- 
stances causative of an event, is sometimes longer 
than may at first be apparent; and also, that a 
proximate cause surprisingly small, may often be 
so connected with an important event, as to charac- 
terize it as the generative cause, and thus to pro- 
duce on the mind a startling impression, similar 
in a degree, to that experienced from wit, which 
agreeably surprises by the sudden detection of 
points of resemblance, between things apparently 
very dissimilar. 

Even so shrewd a commentator on Machiavel, 
as Frederick 11. of Prussia, hesitated not to ascribe 
the change of Queen Anne's ministry, and the 
restoration of peace with Louis XIV. to some petty 
quarrel between her Majesty and the Duchess of 
Marlborough, about a pair of gloves ! Another 
sage writer thinks Marlborough's ejection, and the 
peace of Utrecht, were occasioned by a basin of 
water being cast upon a lady's gown — another 
thinks that the triumphant battle of Rossbach 
must be ascribed to a jest upon Madame de Pom- 
padour — and so again the downfall, during so 
many years, of the Bourbons, has been ascribed to 
a falling out between Maria Antoinette and the 



198 EVENTS, HOW RELATED TO 

Duke of Orleans — the wars of Louis XIV. to some 
offence taken by his minister at the king's com- 
plaint concerning a window ! and so of an hundred 
others that might be named, — all of which trifles, 43 
without doubtj were connected with the great ^ 1 
events mentioned, and may have €ven operated as 
proximate causes; and yet each must have been ^j 
but the almost invisible occasional cause that set a 
thousand others, of infinitely greater weight, into 
actual operation; and, therefore, is to be regarded ^ 
merely as a causative circumstance, by no means ^ 
entitled to play so large a part, as is claimed for 
each, in the great drama of human life. 

In connection with the topic in hand, I do not 
hesitate to note here a few remarks of the late 
Jeremy Bentham, not only because the volume 
containing them is so little known in this coun- 
try — and, comparatively, but little read in his own, 
but likewise as he deals with a part of the subject 
in hand, with his characteristic shrewdness, and 
method. 

'A circumstance may be related to an event^ in 
point of casuality, in one of four ways — 1st, in the 
way of production; 2d, in the way of derivation; 
3d, in the way of collateral connection; and 4th, 
in the way of cortju7ict influence. The circum- 
stance may be said to be related to the event in 
the way of production^ when it is of the number of 
those circumstances which contribute to its causa- 
tion, or existence: in the way of derivation^ when 
it is of the number of the events, to the production 
of which that in question has been contributory : 



REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. 199 

in the way of collateral connectio7i^ when the cir- 
cumstance in question, and the event in question, 
(without either of them being instrumental in the 
production of the other) are related each of them, 
to some common object which has been concerned 
in the production of them both : and in the way of 
conjunct influence ^ when, whether related in any 
other way or not, they have both of them con- 
curred in the production of some common conse- 
quence. All of v/hich may be illustrated by an 
example — In the year 1628, Villars, Duke of 
Buckingham, the favourite minister of Charles I. 
of England, received a wound and died. The 
man who gave it him was one Felton^ who exas- 
perated at the maladministration of which that 
minister was accused, went down from London to 
Portsmouth, where Buckingham happened then to 
be — made his way into his anti-chamber, and find- 
ing him busily engaged in conversation with a 
number of people around him, got close to him, 
drew a knife, and stabbed him. In the effort, the 
assassin's hat fell off, which was found soon after, 
and, upon searching him, the bloody knife. In the 
crown of the hat were found scraps of paper, with 
sentences expressive of the purpose he was come 
upon. — Here then, suppose the event in question 
is the wound received by Buckingham : Felton's 
drawing out his knife, his making his way into the 
chamber, his going down to Portsmouth, his con- 
ceiving an indignation at the idea of Buckingham's 
administration, that administration itself, Charles' 
appointing such a minister, and so on, higher and 



200 EVENTS, HOW RELATED TO 

higher without end^ are so many circumstances 
related to the event in the way of causation or pro- 
duction : the bloodiness of the knife is a circum- 
stance related to the event in the way of deriva- 
tion: the finding the hat upon the ground, the 
finding the sentences in the hat, and the writing 
them, are so many circumstances related to it in 
the way of collateral cofinection : and the situation 
and conversations of the people about Bucking- 1 
ham, were circumstances related t(» the circum- 
stances of Felton's making his way into the room, 
going down to Portsmouth, and so higher and 
higher, in the way of conjunct influence^ inasmuch 
as they contributed in common to the event of* 
Buckingham's death, by preventing him from put- 
ting himself upon his guard upon the first appear- ^ 
ance of the intruder. 

'These several relations do not all of them 
attach upon an event with equal certainty. In 
the first place, it is plain, indeed, that every 
event must have some circumstances related to 
it in the way of production. It must of course 
have a still greater multitude of circumstances 
related to it in the way of collateral connection; 
but it does not appear necessary that every event 
should have circumstances related to it in the way 
of derivation ; nor, therefore, that it should have 
any related to it in the way of conjunct influence. 
This division may be further illustrated and con- 
firmed by the more simple and particular case of 
offspring — for, to production corresponds pater- 
nity — to derivation, Jiliation — to collateral connec- | 



REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. 201 

tion, collateral consanguinity — to conjunct influ- 
ence, marriage and children.'^ 

The foregoing classification, though ingenious, 
and characterized by Mr. Bentham's customary- 
regard to strict method, will appear to many, rather 
fanciful than useful ; but, when more closely in- 
spected, and applied to the infinite concerns of life, 
will be found by no means destitute of truth and 
utility. How much such an apparently artificial 
division of any subject tends to enable the mind to 
extract from it a latent and practical philosophy, is 
well known to those whose vocation calls them to 
accurate and deep inquiries. Where truth is to be 
extracted by a thorough analysis of facts, as is 
so often the duty of the lawyer, the judge, and 
the metaphysician, such methodical arrangements 
will be found of eminent advantage. Much of the 
force as well as beauty of forensic and judicial 
exercitations, is thereby promoted ; and the cause 
of justice is revealed more clearly by the lights 
shed upon the entire subject from these numerous 
divisions, they becoming, as it were, so many 
radiant points of departure for new and illustrative 
researches. And so it is with every thing in life ; 
truth is always made more clear, folly never, by 
such classifications; and the sophistry, however 
artificial and ingenious, of the class to which Pam- 
philus belongs, can never long mislead ; for nothing 
is more true than that wisdom's counsels never 
appear so bright, as when folly attempts to illumi- 
nate her paths. 
18 



202 EVENTS, HOW RELATED TO 

I have been also forcibly struck v^rith some 
remarks of Mr. Villers, in his very sensible and 
learned Prize Essay, on the influences of Luther's 
Reformation. The magnitude of his subject seem- 
ed to appall him ; and, on the outset, he inquires, 
*Is not that great event, which I consider as a 
cause itself, the simple result of many other 
events that have preceded it? — and must I not 
on this account, refer to them, and not to it, which 
has only been an intermediate agent?' 'To the 
eye of the mind,' continues he, 'every event traced 
upwards, becomes a simple effect; every effect, 
traced downwards, becomes in its turn a cause. 
To mount up to a first cause subsisting by itself, 
is a demand on our intellectual nature whiclJ| 
searches for an absolute principle^ on which its 
speculations must terminate.' And he concludes 
with the following beautiful illustration. 'A man 
entirely unacquainted with the nature of a river, 
arriving on the banks of one, and observing it 
here to flow in an extensive plain, there confined 
in a narrow channel, in another place foaming 
by the agitation of a cataract, — such a man would! | 
regard the first turning of the stream, where it 
lies concealed from his eye, as the origin of the 
river — but should he ascend, the cataract would . 
produce a similar illusion ; and having reached the | 
source at last, he would then consider the moun- 
tain from which it issues, as the primary cause of 
the river: he would soon however reflect, that the 
bowels of the mountain must shortly be exhausted 
by so constant a stream — he would then observe 



I 



REMOTE CIRCUMSTANCES. 203 

the accumulation of clouds, and the rains, with- 
out which the drained mountain would yield no 
water — thus would the clouds become the primary- 
cause ! but those, again, are brought by the winds 
which sweep the great seas — and, still further, by 
the sun it is that they are raised from the sea! 
Whence, then, comes this power in the sun?' 

But, enough has been said in this note, to 
unfold my meaning, which briefly is, — that whilst 
the ultimate cause, of almost any thing, is as 
much beyond the reach of the intellectual eye, 
as is the beginning of a circle, (the total disre- 
gard of which has generated many of the crudi- 
ties of vain and ponderous learning) — yet, that 
contentment, in most cases, with the mere proxi- 
mate cause, would fall far short of the legitimate 
limits of philosophical inquiry, and would gene- 
rally end in meagre sciolism: — the juste milieu^ 
therefore, in this, as in all other things, should 
be carefully observed by writers, be they meta- 
physicians, physicians, historians, poets, or what 
not. 



CHAPTER V. 

XVII. CATHEDRALIZING. — XVIII. AN OLLA-PODRIDA. — XIX. 
DREAMING.— XX. THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. — XXI. 
THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 

NOTE XVII. CATHEDRALIZING. 

One of the occupations of a traveller in Eng- 
land, but especially on the Continent, may, not 
unappropriately be called cathedralizing^ for the 
which I conceived no little passion, having been 
led to explore (at least under the genus church) 
perhaps, an hundred on the favoured island, and, 
possibly, ten times as many on the, continent! 
These temples raised to the God of christians, 
be they basilika, cathedral, church, or chapel, are 
often full of the visible chronicles of many cen- 
turies: they shadow forth the progress, mutations, 
decline, and revival of architecture — the growth 
and variations of the fine arts — the piety, follies, 
and superstitions of hierarchs, of monarchs, and 
of people — the rise, progress, and fall of religions, 
and of sects — ^the vandal outrages, and destruc- 
tions of opposing bigots — the devastations of war, 
the reparations of peace — the memorials of family 
affection, pride, or arrogance in the perpetuation 
of the names of the great, the good, and the 



CATHEDRALIZING. 205 

wicked — the trophies of patriotism, or of a coun- 
try's gratitude, preserved in connection with the 
warrior's mausoleum, or his more humble slab — 
the exquisite, or faulty taste of sculptors, painters, 
poets — and, in fine, these temples, perhaps better 
than any other species of building, are the faithful 
guardians, and permanent repositories of many of 
the notabilia in a nation's history. 

I am, then, not ashamed of the many hours 
of many days, devoted to this pursuit, nor of the 
particularity manifested, even in this brief note, 
respecting one of these magnificent christian 
temples. 

The descriptions and reflections of a tourist, 
charming as they sometimes are, have now be- 
come so trite and cur-cheap, that they pall upon 
the appetite; and the very name of tour, or of 
tourist, is fast approaching the fate of things that 
are common, or mawkishly odious ! Now, 

'As every fool describes in these bright days. 
His wonderous journey to some foreign court,' 

I have long since resolved never to indite a 
book, nay, not even a chapter, of travels! And 
yet, no reason do I see why I should not indulge 
in a little harmless note in my diary, for my own 
amusement, and edification withal ; for it is most 
pleasant to recall such things to one's memory — 
so that one may there resort at will, no one to 
chubb him for the trite, erroneous, or silly things he 
may have recorded, nor for the fashion in which 
they may be clothed — but never, oh never, should 

he permit one of them to meet the public eye ! 

18* 



206 CATHEDRALIZING. 

for then, no plea of a private nature would avail 
as an excuse, nor could he haughtily say, in 
regard to the fashion thereof, ^C^est ma fd^on de 
parler, and a further reason I scorn to give^'* as 
well might be said when such notes are suffered 
to meet only his own eye, or that of some special 
friend.* 

The Philosophy of Travel would be, indeed, 
a beautiful subject; but it has never yet been 
attempted, and, perhaps, never will be, as much 
from the want of an author^ as, possibly, of suffi- 
ciently numerous readers were it written! The 
great work of the Abbe Barthelemy is scarce an 
exception to my remark — and yet that was the 
labour of thirty years, the production of an accom- 
plished general scholar, orientalist, antiquarian, 
and industrious traveller; but it treats of matters 
and things he had never seen, it being the imagi- 
nary travels of the younger Anacharsis in Greece : 
whereas I allude to the philosophy of modern 
travel into various countries — not the result of 
extensive reading merely, but also of actual obser- 
vation, and of deep research among the interesting 
and rechercM things, as far as they are extant, 

*The reader now perceives that the closing part of the author's 
resolution, like some lovers' vows, vanished into thin air, when he 
decided to give the public a peep into his note-book. As the 
matters were when first written, so do they now appear, with 
such occasional additions and variations only, as might impart to 
them something of a more popular form. But he fears he must 
still crave pardon even for this small note of travels, and for any 
others that appear in this little volume, so far forth as they 
may be clearly referred to the head of travels, which he very 
generally endeavoured to avoid. 



A 



CATHEDRALIZING. 207 

of all ages, and of all countries ; and, by an 
admirable classification, bringing them so together, 
that the wonders, excellencies, and defects of them 
all may be compared and contrasted ! In such 
a work, governments, laws, institutions, habits, 
customs, arts, sciences, statistics, buildings, (an- 
cient and modern) ruins, antiquities, things curious 
in nature and in art — and, in fine, all that could 
be reaped from extensive wanderings, and from 
minute observation, would be brought together, 
under a concentrated view ; and thus exhibit, as 
it were, an almost universdil comparative travel, 
with its whole intellectuality — so that, like com- 
parative anatomy, with its physiology, it would 
exhibit the subject in all of its bearings^ and in 
all of its varied, beautiful, and useful results! 
Such a book could be accomplished only by a 
Montesquieu among travellers — by such a soli- 
tary emanation, as might suddenly dart upon the 
world only once, perhaps, in a decade of centuries ! 
This by way of episode, and not of preamble to 
what is to follow. 

But, having nearly lost the theme of my dis- 
course, I must remind my reader that I was seek- 
ing for some apology for my present Note, seeing 
that a traveller's descriptions are now so apt to be 
eyed with little estimation, and often with some 
loathing; unless, perhaps, of scenes at either 
pole, — in central Africa — in the long forgotten 
regions of 'Araby the blest' — of Edom — or among 
'Tadmor's marble wastes !' None of these have I. 
unhappily^ to offer, and have therefore indulged 



208 CATHEDRALIZING. 

(although my topic be nothing more than an 
EngUsh Cathedral) in a little ideology about the 
philosophy of travel, to show that I had in my 
mind's eye, at least, the beau ideal of an interest- I j 
ing work on travels, possibly never to be executed |j 
by any one, but now feebly shadowed by me, that I 
might, if possible, conciliate some few towards the 
dull details of one who has never been in such 
very distant lands ! Still, my cathedral may afford 
some interest and instruction to those not learned, 
and not over-fastidious in such matters. With this 
hope, and without further ado, I shall proceed. 

In matters of taste, and of the science that may 
belong to them, there seems to me a certain />oe^ica/ 
justice^ so to speak, which should never be viola- 
ted. Hence, when works of art, or of nature, have 
been traditionally over-praised, or under- praised, it 
affords us pleasure to use our mite of endeavour to 
bring them back to their merited position, and this 
remark, as it seems to me, is strictly applicable to 
the York Minster, the only subject of my Note, 
and of my cathedralizing tour in England, and 
on the continent, with which I shall trouble the 
reader. 

The Minster is, indeed, a noble pile, full of the 
sources of interesting reminiscence, and adorned 
with many goodly evidences of the artist's skill— 
but, by age, misfortunes, and original defects, it is 
not, and never was meritorious of all the praises so 
lavishly bestowed. For centuries it hath been the 
fashion to laud this cathedral in unmeasured terms; 
and often to the disparagement of its fellows, both 



CATHEDRALIZING. 209 

in England, and on the continent: and the cathe- 
dralizer, after visiting those of Wells, Winchester, 
Ely, Salisbury, Peterborough, Westminster, Can- 
terbury, Durham, Lincoln, Bristol, &c. is apt to 
continue in the same eulogistic strain of the Min- 
ster, because his predecessors have so said ! He 
speaks of its great antiquity, of its vast size — of 
its mammoth 'East window' as the tenth marvel of 
the world — of its matchless stained glass — of the 
^maiden sisters,' as far excelling all other windows 
in grace and beauty — of the 'mosaic pavement' — 
the screens, monuments, carvings, gildings, &c. as 
all so transcendant, that the Minster, like Aaron's 
rod, seems to swallow up all others ! 

Now, where there is actually much skill com- 
bined with beauty, it would seem an invidious 
task to note defects — but, is there not justice be- 
tween things inanimate, and even vile, and shall 
there not be among cathedrals, which are among 
the worthiest of human works ? I think so, and 
therefore do I say, though the world should laugh, 
that the Minster is, after all, a vast and most irre- 
gular, graceless pile, with numerous architectural 
defects and blemishes ; that as a whole, and in the 
detail, it is obnoxious to much censure (as well as 
to much praise;) that, compared with some other 
sacred temples, of England and elsewhere, it falls 
far short, in many particulars characteristic of a 
truly great building — a chef d?cEUvre of architec- 
tural genius. Let us then see what this cathedral 
is, and what it is not — but in as brief a discourse 
as may well be. 



210 CATHEDRALIZING. 

The Minster, as it stands now, is the work of 
different periods, beginning with the South Tran- 
sept, in 1227 ; then came the North Transept, in 
1260, the Nave, in 1291, the two Western Towers, 
in 1330, and the Choir, and Central Tower, in 
1370. But the cathedral, on the same site, had its 
origin at a much remoter date, parts of which 
original building are to be found in the existing 
foundations, in the crypt; the old materials having 
been worked into the more modern structure ; and, 
in the crypt may be found columns, with neatly 
carved capitals and bases ; which, however, are 
extremely short, scarce more than six feet high, 
and some even much less. From this it would 
seem highly probable that these columns are not 
now in their original places, as component parts of 
a much earlier sacred building, as seems to be 
erroneously supposed by some. 

The first church on the present site, was built in 
627, by Edwin, king of the Northumbrians, who 
was one of the earliest of the petty monarchs of 
this island, that embraced Christianity. This being 
destroyed by fire, was rebuilt in 1069, and again 
met the same fate, and was then rebuilt by arch- 
bishop Thomas, and again consumed in 1137, and 
oiice more rebuilt by A. B. Roger, in 1171. Thus 
it remained until reconstructed as it now stands, 
commencing with the year 1227, and ending in 
1370, since which latter date no material alteration 
has taken place, except in that portion of it de- 
stroyed in 1827, by that mad incendiary, Jonathan 
Martin, who, conceiving he would be rendering 



C ATHEDRALIZING. 21 1 

God a service, applied his sacrilegious torch, which 
consumed most of the choir, part of the nave, and 
considerably injured many, and destroyed some of 
the monuments. The damage, however, was not 
very great, and has been thoroughly repaired after 
the original models, and with an artistical skill, not 
only extremely creditable to the present age, but 
which shows that, if occasion demand, the proud 
and gorgeous cathedral of catholic times, can in 
our day be made to stand forth in all its varied, 
beautiful, massive, and expensive details ! 

After a careful examination of this much-famed 
temple, and an equally observant inspection of 
many of the most noted cathedrals of France, 
Italy, and of some other countries^ I have not been 
able, as already remarked, to account for the extra- 
ordinary praises so constantly bestowed on this, 
and why it should have taken rank so highly 
above its associates, even in England : for, whether 
it be regarded in its integrity, or in its details, it 
could never, in its most palmy days, have been 
much superior to some others of the island, and 
falls short, in many respects, of some of the conti- 
nental cathedrals. 

If we attend to its dimensions, exterior form, 
ornaments and carvings; its interior outlines, tra- 
ceries, fiUigranes, stained glass, the construction 
and material of its roof, its pavements, and its 
monuments, we shall find some deficiency in them 
all ; and that in most of these particulars, other 
English cathedrals, and some of their chapels are 



212 CATHEDRALIZING. 

quite equal; and occasionally, in some of them, 
superior. 

And 1st, of its dimensions. The Minster is 524i 
feet in length, 222 in its transept, and 109 in its 
nave. Winchester cathedral is 556 feet in length, 
and 186 in its transept and nave. The Minster's 
towers are 234 feet in height, those of Lincoln are 
2T0— of SL PauPs 356, and of Salisbury 387 feet. 
The Minster's choir is 131 feet in length, and 99 in 
height — that of St. Paul's is 165 in length, and 88 
in height, and those of Rochester, Canterbury, 
Peterborough, Winchester, Salisbury, Lincoln, and 
Westminster, are all larger. In regard, therefore, 
to the effect arising from mere dimensions, no 
superiority can be claimed for the York building, 
at least none that is striking to the eye. 

2d. As to its exterior aspect and ornaments, the . 
entire Minster being formed apparently, as well as 
actually, of an aggregation of edifices, not very 
harmoniously and artfully associated, presents to 
the eye an extremely irregular outline, composed 
also, of five distinct species of Gothic architecture: 
this impresses the beholder with a sensation of 
laboured confusion, rather than of admirable vast- 
ness ; for, the vision being broken into fragments, 
can no where rest upon the whole at once, so as to 
excite those sublime emotions, consequent upon the 
contemplation of great magnitude ; nor are the 
towers of sufficient height to raise in us those ! 
delightful sensations. In respect, also, to the plea- | 
sure derived from the multiplicity and beauty of j 
exterior decorations, the cathedrals of Wells, West- I 



CATHEDRALIZING. 213 

minster, Winchester, Peterborough, and others, 
may justly claim the palm. The infinitely varied 
gothic traceries, tabernacle work, rosettes, statues, 
devices, &c. and, in fine, all of those rich embel- 
lishments that characterize the florid gothic, are, 
on the exterior of these buildings, superior to those 
of the Minster. The locale^ also, of the York 
building is singularly bad for the display of its 
magnitude, its beauties, or its defects. It is en- 
compassed almost on every side by narrow streets, 
and indifferent buildings, which so crowd upon it, 
as to intercept its full view from every point. 

Externally, the Minster presents on its main 

front facing the west, two towers of equal height, 

each surmounted by eight crocketted pinnacles, 

united by a very low battlement. These towers, 

each pierced with three windows, are neither lofty, 

nor highly decorated ; and yet ihey are still more 

embelhshed than the other exterior parts of the 

building. On this western fa9ade are three doors, 

one piercing each tower ; and the main one, in the 

centre, is a double arched door, with a rude statue 

of a Vavasor and a Percy, on the right and left. 

Immediately over this door is the great Western 

] Window ; and the front, generally, is relieved by 

! niches, almost destitute, however, at this time, of 

j images or other devices, so essential in the idea of 

\ gothic architecture. Leaving this western front, 

I and following the line of the cathedral to the south, 

,;j we find in the centre of the building a very large, 

j but low square tower, with but little ornament, and 

in most respects unworthy of its place, as it har- 

19 



214 CATHEDRALIZING. 

monizes but little, even with the plain gothic 
which, so generally, marks the exterior. At this 
point is the south entrance, which, though not so 
imposing as that on the west front, is not destitute 
of ornament. The courses of steps leading up to 
the south transept, the four octangular turrets, the 
great Marigold Window, and the little square turret 
just above it, give considerable variety to this 
fapade, but no sublimity or grandeur whatever. In 
proceeding further towards the east front, nothing 
breaks the outline of this south side, and we arrive 
at the east fa9ade with great expectations, as being 
remarkable, not only for a more chaste style than 
the other fronts, but for the much vaunted East 
Window, which is seventy-jive feet in height, and 
is, undoubtedly, if that be a merit, the largest 
window in the world ! This window, viewed 
from the exterior, is certainly very striking both 
from its magnitude, and graceful form ; but the 
fame of its stained glass^ if ever deserved, has 
long since departed from it ; for it strikes the eye as 
a merely confused congeries of ill-sorted bits of 
glass, rudely blended with slips of lead, having no 
visible or comprehensive design, and as wholly 
destitute of beauty as can well be imagined. The 
mind in search of the evidences of contrivance and 
of beauty, adverts neither to the vastness of the 
opening, thus charged with lead and glass, nor to 
the vast expense of time and of money said to 
have been bestowed on it, nor yet to the skill and 
extraordinary patience of the artist, but solely to 



CATHEDRALIZING. 215 

those instantaneous sensations of delight which it 
is the province of beauty, or of sublimity to excite. 
Now, I am free to confess, I am Goth enough 
to admit that, when casting my eye over this 
^finest window in the world,' and which Drake 
says *is justly called the wonder of the world, 
both for masonry and glazing.' I felt great dis- 
appointment, and found quite as much positive 
ugliness, as beauty ; and though, after closely 
examining it from the interior, my judgment be- 
came satisfied that it originally must have cost 
both skill and unwearied patience, and that the 
artist had richly earned more than his daily pit- 
tance during the years occupied by him in its 
various combinations ; yet, was I still more con- 
firmed that it is, and ever was, a confused mass, 
as destitute of simplicity and of every element of 
taste and of beauty, as almost any other human 
labour that cost so much of time, expectation, and 
expense. This east end is somewhat impaired by 
the ravages of time ; the niches have almost dis- 
appeared, and but few statues grace either them, 
or the buttresses. Proceeding towards the north 
side, and at the corner of the transept, we are 
met by the once splendid Chapter-House; which, 
though it somewhat mars the beauty of the out- 
hne, has ever been regarded as the pride of the 
whole Minster. Passing by this, for the present, 
we reach the north facade, which brings us once 
more to our starting point. This north front is yet 
in a plainer style than any of the others, though 



216 CATHEDRALIZING. 

graced with the celebrated windows known by the^ 
name of the 'Five Maiden Sisters.' 

Having now passed hastily round the building,^ 
we are prepared to examine the glories within. 

3d. The interior aspect and ornaments, — Much^ 
of the imposing effect on entering the Minster 
depends upon the portal by which you are ad- 
mitted; which should be, especially on your^^r^^ 
entrance, by the western door, and not into the 
south transept, as is so usual. By the formef(^| 
passage, your eye takes in, at once, the whole 
range of the nave, transept, and choir, of more ^ J 
than five hundred feet in length! A gallery sus- "^ i 
tained by arches, follows this long line of the 
nave, extending to the transept two hundred andl 
sixty feet, and is decorated with the armorial! 
bearings of the Minster's patrons. On the two 
side aisles, over their entrances, are some finely 
executed basso-relievoes, representing ancient rurally 1 
sports ; and these aisles are lighted by sixteen 
windows, fourteen of which are glazed with stain- 
ed glass. Over the centre of the transept is the 
arch of the central tower, lighted by eight win- 
dows, and the ceiling of this, as also of the nave, 
and aisles, is of wood painted, and ornamented 
with traceries. In the central knot of the ceiUng 
of the tower, are two figures of St. Peter and St. | 
Paul; which, however, are too small to be seen 
with the least effect, the height being one hun- 
dred and eighty-eight feet from the pavement ! _ 
At the north-east corner is the entrance into the \ 
Chapter House, and between the transept and the 



CATHEDRALIZING. 217 

choir is a magnificent stone screen, which sepa- 
rates to a certain height, the nave from the choir. 
This screen was surmounted before the late fire, 
by a magnificent organ, which contained 3,254 
pipes, and 52 stops, and which has probably been 
replaced by a still larger one. 

The Chapter House, an octagon building of 
about sixty-five feet in diameter, must have been, 
originally, by far the most magnificent part of the 
cathedral, but has now gone nearly to ruin. 
Sufficient remains, however, to indicate its for- 
mer splendour. The massive doors covered with 
iron scrolls, the richly gilt and painted dome, 
the seven Gothic windows of stained glass, which 
nearly occupy the octagon, the forty-four stalls 
with rich canopies of curiously carved devices, 
the Virgin Mother treading on the serpent, the 
silver statues of the twelve apostles, on the low 
pedestals which still remain, the numerous slender 
and graceful columns, which pass on each side of 
the stalls, embellished with richly gilt capitals 
and many strangely grotesque figures and devices, 
designed to caricature the secular clergy of those 
times, and the exquisitely beautiful tracery-work 
with numerous other decorations, all in their pri- 
mitive freshness, must have presented a gorgeous 
scene greatly heightened, too, when the forty-four 
church dignitaries in their richest vestments were 
seated in their respective stalls ! At the entrance 
of the door which occupies the eighth side of the 
octagon, may still be seen in large gilt Saxon 
letters, the following lines in praise either of the 
19* 



218 CATHEDRALIZING. 

Minster at large, or of the Chapter House in 
particular, probably the former. 

i Ut Rosa phlos phlorum 

Sic est Domus, ista domorum. 

Which, in our vernacular, may be spread out 
thus — ^As the rose is chiefest among flowers, so is 
this house among houses.' 

Over this entrance are the niches for the 
apostles and virgin; but these splendid silver-gilt 
statues fell a prey to the rapacious Old Harry, of 
monastery-loving memory ! The construction of 
the vaulted roof, supported neither by arch nor pil- 
lar, is said to be a master-piece of architectural 
skill. It is wholly of wood plastered, and was 
highly decorated — but its glories are now nearly 
extinct. 

The screen, to which I have alluded as sepa- 
rating the nave from the choir, is certainly at this 
time the most beautiful and interesting object of 
the cathedral. It is in perfect preservation, and 
probably far exceeds the much admired screen of 
the Confessor in Westminster Abbey when perfect, 
but which is now a ruin. The splendour which 
once reigned in the Chapter House, was in a great 
degree the result of gilding and painting, but the 
stone screen is a work of matchless skill, of un- 
wearied labour, of great fertility of design, and is 
altogether a chef dP(mivre thai woulcj probably put 
to shame, if not the taste, at least the ingenuity of 
the best artists and sculptors of our age. The 
massive stone has become instinct with life — has 
lost its solidity, is seen into deeply beyond its 



CATHEDRALIZING. 219 

surface, like the wonderfully elaborated work of 
the Chinese in ivory, still the marvel of many 
who remove the difficulty, only by insisting that 
the ivory has been softened, so that its delicate 
lace work becomes an ordinary manipulation, re- 
quiring little else than mechanical patience. But 
this cannot be said of the brittle material which 
composes the screen. No Papin's digester— no 
chemic art, can have softened this stone ; and the 
screen presents to the eye a study for a week, 
composed of vines, and of delicately formed leaves, 
of insects, animals, and reptiles, done to the life, 
and many of them concealed as it were, under 
others, require some scrutiny to detect them, and 
when discovered, excite unmingled surprise and 
delight! The screen is further adorned with 
fifteen statues as large as life, of the English 
monarchs, from the Conqueror, to the sixth Henry 
inclusive; and when viewed, either in its inte- 
grity, or in the detail, is altogether one of the most 
attractive objects to be seen in this, or perhaps, in 
any other cathedral. 

The choir is in admirable taste : the tabernacle 
work of the stalls and of their canopies, though 
recent restorations, are beautifully wrought. Some, 
however, affect to lament greatly the destruction of 
the old substantial and more deeply carved work; 
which, though confessedly inferior in execution to 
the modern, is said by them to have been vast- 
ly more effective, when viewed somewhat at a 
distance. The present cathedra, or archbishop's 
throne, and the pulpit, are truly admirable. The 



220 CATHEDRALIZING. 

choir, like the nave, has a gallery supported by- 
arches ; and is lighted by windows that rise nearly 
to the height of the roof — and it is here, hkewise, 
that we find the famous east window, which be- 
comes somewhat transparent but still remains a 
confused jargon, so to speak, of colours, void of 
pictorial design. 

Having thus cursorily passed entirely round the 
interior, as well as the exterior of the building, — a 
few particulars may, perhaps, be indulged in, as 
necessary to a little further vindication of the dis- 
position I have manifested, to differ in some degree 
from the unqualified praise so lavishly bestowed 
on it by others. 

The roofy or rather the ceiling, as before re- 
marked is of wood^ painted in imitation of stone, 
and is ornamented in rather a crude and inelegant 
manner. It is, moreover, quite too low, (except 
that of the vault of the central tower) and comes 
actually in contact with the apex of each of the 
great windows ! The material of the roof ill har- 
monizes with the general magnificence and soli- 
dity of the edifice, and is inferior to the ceilings of 
several other English cathedrals, and even chapels. 
How much does it fall short of the stone vaults of' 
King's chapel, Cambridge, of St. George's chapel, 
at Windsor, and how immeasurably behind that of 
the Abbey at Westminster ! These all, are of 
wonderful and exquisite workmanship ; they sus- 
pend over your head solid and eternal masses of 
stone, exciting almost fearfully sublime emotions 
at their contemplation. These ponderous cano- 



CATHEDRALIZING. 221 

pieSj the envy and almost the opprobiiim of modern 
architects, are sometimes perfectly flat or horizon- 
tal, and seem a wizzard work that baffles compre- 
hension, suspended you know not how, and mak- 
ing the beholder involuntarily shrink, lest the vast 
and heavy masses, of some of their richly carved 
figures, of more than a ton's weight, should for- 
sake their fastenings, and crush one to powder ! 
And yet, these massive stones are often rendered 
so apparently light and airy by the sculptor's 
handy art, as to represent some gossamer cover- 
ing — or rich drapery of lace, and ingenious needle 
work, embellished with golden appliances ! Who 
then, would compare the wooden, though painted 
and gilded ceilings, of York Minster, even when 
in their original freshness, with the matchless 
magnificence, and architectural skill, that hangs 
over you, within the edifice just mentioned! 

So, likewise, much has been unmeaningly said 
as to the stained glass which abounds in the 
Minster. In quantity, this cathedral certainly ex- 
ceeds any other in that particular ; but, in quality, 
and in pictorial design and efiect, it seems to me 
extremely defective ; and the eye of taste and of 
science would seem to be less gratified in this 
respect in the Minster, than in the chapels at 
Cambridge and Westminster, and in some of the 
halls and public buildings of other places. The 
'maiden sisters'^ of the Minster are certainly emi- 
nently graceful, and worthy of their name in this 
respect. They are larger than any of the windows 
in the chapels and halls adverted to^ but do not 



222 CATHEDRALIZING. 

equal them in richness and beauty of colouring, 
nor in the distinctnes of pictorial design. 

These remarks apply with still more justness to 
the stained glass of the East Window, which though 
seventy-five feet by thirty-two feet, is so divided 
into two hundred compartments, great and small, 
and subdivided by the painter almost indefinitely, 
as to give to no portion of it a clear and satisfac- 
tory effect ! The designs are taken mainly from 
scriptural subjects, and the glazier, one John 
Thornton, is said to have been occupied, during 
many years, commencing in 1.405, with the mere 
manipulation of inserting in the leads, the nume- 
rous pieces of glass of various colours, and designs, 
that compose the entire work ! If the original, as 
it came from master Thornton's hands, did not 
almost wholly vary from what it now exhibits, 
(which can scarce be the case, as I have now before 
me Drake's ponderous folio, with his numerous en- 
gravings, which sufficiently unfold its state in 
palmy days,) it must ever have been a mass of con- 
fused devices ! We are told, indeed, that the artist 
had in his mind's eye very many curious and dis- 
tinct fancies, which embraced nearly the whole of 
Bible history ; and the engravers, with much pains, 
have been able to delineate some crude outlines 
thereof; but no eye, as we think, can trace them 
with the coup d^oeil a traveller must accord to it; 
and the painful attention of an artist who designs 
to commit the result to paper, is out of the question, 
as this would require some days, at least ! 



CATHEDRALIZING. 223 

The Armorial, and the West Window, are far 
more satisfactory, as they are less complex, are 
more transparent, and yield the designs to the eye, 
with infinitely more clearness and certainty. The 
traditional praise, then, so uniformly accorded to 
this East Window, over all others, has probably 
resulted from regarding magnitude, variety, com- 
plexity, toil, and expense, as per se just sources 
of great commendation. It is the province and 
privilege, however, of every traveller, to look with 
his own eyes, and to judge with his own mind, 
regardless of time sanctioned praises. 

The new pavement^ also, which has been, not 
very inappropriately, called mosaic^ has been greatly 
extolled, and with little justice. About a century 
ago. Lord Burlington prevailed on the dean and 
chapter to remove the old pavement, composed of 
innumerable grave stones, many of which, as the 
antiquarian Francis Drake informs us, ^formerly 
shone like embroidery, being enriched with ima- 
ges, &c. in brass, of bishops and of other ecclesias- 
tics represented in proper habits.' This sacrilege 
was somewhat mitigated by the fact that all the 
old marble grave stones, though entirely robbed of 
their identity, were carefully wrought up, and used 
in the formation of the new pavement, thus having 
respect to economy, if not to taste, and to the me- 
mory of the honoured and lamented dead ! And 
the act would have been still further expiated had 
the 'mosaic' fancy of my Lord Burlington been 
more worthy the noble pile it was designed to 
grace. But we have to quarrel with the new pave- 



224 CATHEDRALIZING. 

ment, not only for these reasons, but for the remo- 
val of the eighty-eight circles curiously wrought 
into the old one, as so many stations for the digni- 
taries of the church to stand in^ during the pomp 
and circumstance attendant upon the installations, 
and on other solemn occasions ! These ecclesias- 
tics, 'habited according to their proper distinctions, 
and clad in their copes and vestments, must have 
made a glorious appearance,' says Drake — who 
gave to the world his massive folio, in the very 
year that this work of destruction by the tasteful 
Lord Burlington, was going on. 

I have now given, tediously I fear, as is nearly 
unavoidable in such details, my notions of this 
famous cathedral, and some brief reasons for dis- 
senting in part, from the customary language in- 
dulged in — such as, ^the cathedral appears like a 
vast mountain starting out of a plain^ — Ht is the 
most august of temples'^ — ^its vastness and beauty 
impress the observer with awe and sublimity'^ — 'Me 
glory of the kingdom? — SV is the summit of scien- 
tific perfection and excellence^ not to be surpassed"^ — 
^the finest window in the world'^ — Hhe highest^ 
lightest J and most extensive arch in the woild,'^ &c. 
(fcc. These, as it seemed to me, are rather inordi- 
nate expressions, excusable enough, when flowing 
from the hasty and ardent pen of a patriotic En- 
glishman, but essentially wrong in one really in 
search of truth, and especially so, when looking 
after the elements of comparative excellence. The 
fact is, this noble pile has too much solid worth, 
and real beauty, to need such indiscriminate and 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 225 

untruthful praise; and, like the loveliness that 
flows not from regular features^ but which shadows 
forth the riches of a fine intellect within, the Mins- 
ter of York must ever command our sober venera- 
tion for much intrinsic worth; though, when exa- 
mining its features, we may be compelled to pro- 
nounce them often ^rudely stamped,' and cast into 
a 'perverse mould.' 



NOTE XVIII. — AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

The Spaniards have a dish of much note among 
them, consisting of many meats, and other savoury 
things, stewed together with little regard to homo- 
geneity ; and it is sometimes convenient for authors 
thus to deal h la cuisinier^ when one knows not 
exactly what he means to write about. What I 
have now to say is yet all in nubibus — it may be 
one thing, various, and any thing, just as my pen 
shall vouchsafe. I do remember an old French 
cook, whose master loved good things, but kept so 
tight a string over his purse, and doled out to his 
faithful Jacques, the viands and the condiments, 
with so niggard a hand, that his dinners always 
seemed the result of accident, and surprised the 
servant and master, quite as much as was Dr. 
Brewster, when, from a few fragments of stones, 
of glass, and of tinsel, all the varied beauties of 
the kaleidoscope arose to his astonished view. 
And so it is with an author sometimes ; the re- 
sults are essentially accidental — they have nothing 
to do with calculation — the reckless experimenter 
20 



226 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

is as ignorant of what may follow, as are the brute 
materials with which he may operate ; and how I 
shall come out of my OUa-Podrida, I can no more 
say, than can my standish and its black contents, 
or the steel pen, its vehicle — on all of which I am 
^0 slavishly dependent for the avails. These mat- 
ters premised, proceed we now to the intended pot 
pourri. 

I have just returned from a walk, among some 
of the most beautiful of Nature's works, over the 
Apennines, between the htile town of Prejus, and 
the old, walled, and fortified city of Antibes. 
When I descended from my carriage to pluck 
flowers on the way, and to survey all around me 
the many lovely prospects that enchanted my 
view, the sun was fast declining, and many float- 
ing clouds cast their shadows upon the boundless 
forests, the towering rocks, and the small valleys 
that reposed in luxuriance between the mountains. 
These all filled my soul with such a crowd of 
images, that on reaching the locanda^ I fell into 
a kind of dreamy reverie upon the beauties of 
nature — I then glanced over my note book, and 
found that some similar reflections had been there 
recorded long before. I then seized my pen, and 
poured forth some more of these feelings— and 
such a melange ! 

'Happy he 
Whom what he views of beautiful or grand 
In nature, from the broad majestic oak 
To the green blade that twinkles in the sun. 
Prompts with the remembrance of a present God;' 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 227 

for, without diving with a philosophic eye into 
the recesses of nature, the most irresistible evi- 
dences of a divine architect are reflected from the 
most simple objects which present themselves. 
Whether we contemplate the starry orbs, 

'Pursue the comets where they farthest run, 
And bring them back obsequious to the sun,' 

or descend to this our globe, and examine the 
admirable conformity of the whole ; or whether we 
enter into the bowels of the earth, and behold the 
rich mines of valuable metals, earths, spars and 
fossils of various kinds ; or lastly, whether we 
examine the meanest of nature's animated beings, 
we cannot but be lost in amazement at the wonder- 
ful mechanism, the wisdom, goodness and mercy 
displayed in their formation ! The existence of a 
God being sanctioned by such irrefragable evidence, 
how blind, nay, how perfectly stupid must he be, 
who would attribute this exquisite workmanship to 
the fortuitous junction of atoms, the whirling of 
vortices, or the principle of elementary attractions ! 
These afiinities, however plausibly they may ac- 
count for the formation of organized inanimate 
matter, certainly leave us perfectly in the dark as 
to the origin of life ; for, as Rousseau sensibly 
observes, 'the chemist with all his art in com- 
pounds, has never yet found sensation or thought at 
the bottom of his crucible.' The proof, therefore, 
of the existence of a being who is the originator 
*of mind and matter — of a being transcendant in 
wisdom and goodness, being so prominent in the 



228 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

features of surrounding nature, it is the duty of 
parents and tutors early to habituate their children 
and pupils to the contemplation of the harmonies, 
perfections and sublimities which momentarily 
crowd upon the mind, and to teach them to behold 
this mass of loveliness with a discriminating eye, 
and a grateful heart. 

How amply does the traveller of taste expatiate* \ 
on the beauties of nature — with what enthusiasm- i 
does he admire the tremendous cataract, the 'cloud 
capt' mountains, the wild luxuriancy of the mea- 
dows, the rude impending rocks, and the bold 
majestic flow of an expanded river— these are 
among the beauties and sublimities of what is 
called nature — on these he dwells with rapture, 
but, perhaps, without once reflecting that 



^Nature is but a name for an ejfFect, 
Whose cause is God.' 



4 



When we raise our eyes to the spangled vault* 
of heaven, and behold myriads of shining spheres — 
when we reflect that most of these are globes like 
ours; peopled with inhabitants in the pursuit of | 
the same ends that we are — when we consider that ■ 
many of these stars are but suns to other systems; 
and that these systems are, perhaps, but component 
parts of others, upon a still grander and more sub- I 
lime scale, how noble is the thought — how useful is ■ 
the lesson that may be deduced from it. We learn 
to consider ourselves but as mites in the creation— I 
it checks our pride, ennobles our ideas of the plans 
and views of the Creator, and teaches us to be 
humble and virtuous. In descending in our con- 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 229 

templation from the vast expanse of the universe 
to the place of our own habitation — we cannot but 
be charmed with the harmonies, the admirable 
economy and boundless profusion of blessings and 
conveniences every where displayed. 

The first grand and sublime objects which at- 
tracts our attention is, the boundless Ocean. Here 
we behold power in its vastness^ wisdom in its 
motions^ and goodness in its contents. Whether 
we see the surface as a polished speculum, reflect- 
ing the passing clouds, or view it in its wildest 
rage, rolling mountainous waves against each other, 
our souls dilate with awful sublimity, and invohm- 
tary ejaculations ascend to Him who in wisdom 
bridles the angry billows, and keeps them within 
their proper bounds. 

In contemplating the vastness of the ocean, if 
we reflect that the smallest drop of water is com- 
puted to contain many thousand globules, what 
myriads must compose that grand mass] which 
encompasses our globe ! let the ablest Newton en- 
deavour to compute the number — as well may he 
attempt to compress the ocean in a vial, or measure 
the universe with a span ! 

In the deep recesses of this watery empire, 
dwells the mighty Leviathan, Here the walrus 
and the whale pay him court, and myriads of the 
smaller race supply him with food. The ocean 
itself feels his weight, and the waves yield to his 
massy sides. 

This vast expanse of water is the great reservoir 
from which the clouds are exhaled, to shelter us 
20* 



230 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

from the piercing beams of the sun — to cool the 
atmosphere, and descend on our plains in genial 
dews and showers — from it proceeds our cooling 
fountains, the meandering stream, the majestic 
river and the tremendous cataract — these supply 
the vegetable world with their chief nutriment, i i 
and give to man that pabulum, without which life 
could not be sustained. 

Let us next attend to the earth itself We per- 
ceive it to be diversified with mountains, woods, 
hills and dales — with rocks, fountains, caverns, 
rivers and streams. These unevennesses, so farj 
from being blemishes or defects, greatly heighten^ 
its beauty. 

Here we see it rise in huge and massy moun- 
tains, whose rugged sides seem to defy ascent, 
much less cultivation. There it is scooped into 
extensive vales, covered with the richest verdure. 
To this succeeds a wide champaign country, * 
ornamented with meadows — the varied coloured 
orchard — the golden harvest, and the contented 
cottage. At a greater distance, we perceive the 
mountains raise their aspiring peaks, and border- , | 
ing our horizon like so many dark majestic clouds, 
their frozen summits attracting the moisture of the 
heavens, to pour them in genial dews upon the 
fertile vales below. 

Let us enter the woods — here we behold the 
oak, the monarch of the forest — the elm, the 
pride of spring — the maple, distilling its juices, 
to supply us with sugar — the luxuriant verdure | 
of the cedar, pine and hemlock — and the fair 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 231 

beech, offering its umbrageous boughs, whilst we 
make its polished bark the depository and conser- 
vator of some favourite name. 

What a pleasant retreat do the woods afford the 
beasts of the field from the inclemencies of the 
winter, or the scorching rays of a vertical sun! 
Here we see those vast plants receiving their chief 
nutriment from the moisture of the earth, supplied 
with refreshing showers from the heavens, and 
inhaling the air by their leaves from the surround- 
ing atmosphere. These supply us with fuel for 
various uses — timber for our habitations, and serve 
us also as conveyances to distant climes to supply 
ourselves with the necessaries and luxuries of life, 
and convey ours to them. Thus is it, that the 
various nations of the earth, by a social inter- 
course, become humanized — imbibe a fellow-feel- 
ing for each other, and view one another rather in 
the light of members of one large family, than as 
nations having no other relation than as beings 
inhabiting the same globe. 

If we view the ground, we find it enamelled 
with flowers and shrubs of various sorts. These 
not only delight the eye by the richness of their 
colours, and greet the smell with their grateful 
odours, but serve as food both for man and other 
animals, and likewise furnish us with various 
drugs essential to the preservation of our health. 

If we enter the orchard, what an ample demon- 
stration of our Creator's kindness have we here 
displayed ! we behold the trees bending to the 
earth with their luxuriant burthens. Part of their 



232 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

mellow treasures quit their parent tree and afford a 
delicious food to the different animals which repose 
under their shade — the little songsters of the wood 
perch on the boughs and take their welcomed por- 
tion of nature's bounty — nay, the flies, and very 
insects of the air are here supplied by their boun- 
teous Creator. Not only the trees and the fertile 
bosom of the earth, but the very atmosphere is 
impregnated with food for the animalculag which 
inhabit it. In fact, the whole earth is a vast ma- 
gazine from which we and they are supplied, as 
our and their necessities require; for 

'The Holy Power that clothes the senseless earth, 
With woods, with fruits, with flowers and verdant grass. 
Whose bounteous hands feed the whole brute creation. 
Knows all our wants, and has enough to give us. — Rowe. 

How extatic is it, when rising in the morning, 
renovated and refreshed by the balm of sleep, to 
behold the beauties of the rising orb of day. 
Aurora comes with all her varied hues — Phoebus 
mounts triumphant in the east, whilst the lenient 
air breathes the most delicious odours. The little 
feathered songsters, concealed in their verdant 
abodes, delighted with smiling nature, pour forth 
their melody, borne on the gentle breeze to listen- 
ing man. At a distance we behold the polished 
surface of a lake reflecting from her fair bosom the 
pendant trees which crowd the margin — the fleecy 
mists, wafted from their parent waters to the moun- 
tain's top, refract the ruddy beams of the rising 
sun, and present the most sublimely magnificent 
scene that can be imagined. The clouds as they 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 233 

gradually dissipate by the dissolving influence of 
the solar beams, assume the most fantastic shapes, 
whilst, according to their various densities, they 
reflect the light in all the vivid and charming 
colours of the rainbow. What a blind infatua- 
tion — what a perversion of judgment is it in those 
curious beings who travel from Abyla and Calpi, 
to the shores of the Pacific, to see and purchase at 
enormous prices, various happy imitations of na- 
ture's beauties, and are yet insensible to such real 
beauties, and would rather remain in sluggard sleep, 
than rise and contemplate scenes so far transcend- 
ing the finest delineations of art. In the verdant 
meadow we hear the bleating of the flocks — the 
murmuring of the distant rill — the cooing of the 
solitary dove — the freshest exhalations of softened 
nature salute our smell — our eyes are delighted 
with myriads of wild flowrets, 

'Arrayed 
In all the colours of the flushing year,' 

and hiding their beauteous blossoms in the sur- 
rounding verdure. These are scenes worthy phi- 
losophic contemplation — they are scenes which 
inspire love for the great Author of their forma- 
tion, and forcibly shew us how vastly nature 
exceeds the finest touches of the pencil of art. 
Retiring from the growing influence of the sun 
to our chamber, we may here muse on the plea- 
sures afibrded us by our morning walk — we may 
contemplate nature in books — we may amuse our- 
selves in delineating her beauties on canvass ; and, 
as recollection brings them to our view, the rude 



234 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

sketches of the pencil paint them more forcibly 
to our mind. These are, to be sure, secondary 
pleasures, but the ardent and impassioned admirer 
of nature is far from neglecting them. — When in 

<The western sky the downward sun 
Looks out effulgent from amid the flush 
Of broken clouds, gay shifting to his beam,' 

we may once more sally forth to inhale the odours 
of the evening, and mark the progressive influ- 
ence of the departing sun on the surrounding 
scenery. The melody of the groves is revived — 
nature is re-animated from the burning influence 
of the sun — the ox and the plough-horse cease 
from their labours — and the honest farmer seated 
before his door 

'Musing praise and looking lively gratitude,' 

rests his wearied limbs from the toils of the day, 
and enjoys the sweets of society with his wife, 
children, and friendly neighbour. And then, how 
pleasing is it to observe the harmless cows on the 
margin of the river, returning in formal procession 
to pay their voluntary tribute to the industrious 
milk-maid, whilst others, more dilatory in their 
movements, luxuriously bathe their scorched sides 
in the limpid waters, and lash with their flowing 
tails the teazing gad-flies. 

The noisy geese and waddling ducks return to 
their resting place — nature finally assumes a calm 
and pleasing tranquillity, undisturbed, save by the 
screech of the solitary owl, or the mournful notes 
of the lonely whippero'will. 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 235 

It is at this delightful period that the garden 
sends forth its most grateful odours — the even- 
ing zephyrs carry on their wings the sweet 
scented Callicanthus — the perfumes of the carna- 
tion and the exhilirating odours of the varied 
coloured Polianthus. 

The botanist has wandered from bed to bed, 
contemplating their beauties, their relationship to 
each other, and arranging them according to their 
class and order. He now reviews them in his 
closet, with an eye which discovers a crowd of 
beauties, of which those ignorant of this charming 
science are totally unacquainted. 

The vegetable physiologist contemplates them 
as distinguished by sex — investigates their facul- 
ties of perception — observes their modes of pro- 
pagation and fecundation, marks their different 
ways of inspiration and expiration — their diseases, 
both contagious and infectious — sees them liable 
to hunger and thirst — and lastly, views them 
gradually destroyed by age, and yielding to that 
monarch to which all nature pays the tribute of 
death. 

Let us go beyond the garden, and pay a moon- 
light visit to a neighbouring water-fall. In this 
delightful spot has sportive nature combined every 
thing pleasing to the eye, or that may in any way 
inspire sublime emotions — the wild rurality of the 
scene — the roaring of the waters — the echoed res- 
ponses from the surrounding rocks, the deep and 
clustered foliage of trees— here shutting out — 
there admitting the moonlight, all conspire to 



236 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

delight the beholder. The massy rocks rudely 
suspending their naked heads over the rushing 
waters — the white foaming surges mixing their 
troubled waves with the lucid stream which flows 
on with majestic dignity below — added to the 
sombre shades of the encompassing rocks and 
trees, form altogether a picture both sublime and 
beautiful. Sublimity awakens the soul, calls it 
into action, and fills it with sensibilities the most 
lively, perceptible and pleasing; and scenes of this 
kind display the true picturesque, for here is a 
happy combination of beauty and sublimity, the 
latter of which never makes a scene picturesque. 
Landscapes which raise no sublime emotions, 
are often called picturesque, and this, no doubt, 
with propriety — but when sublimity is united 
with beauty, the effect is the genuine picturesque. 
Would we, then, have this species of beauty in 
perfection, it is not sufficient that we find massy 
rocks, grand mountains, and lofty cascades ; bu^ | 
we must have the superadded beauty of trees and 
of shrubs, in all their varied positions, figures and 
colours, together with the glowing and mellow tints 
of the atmosphere, the graceful meanderings of 
streams, and many other lovely objects — and when 
these are all combined, the scene is then — a pic- ■ 
ture. These, though more usual in Italy than | 
elsewhere, are still to be often found in other 
lands. 

There are, perhaps, in the world, few countries 
where nature has been more lavish of her beau- 
ties than in my own dear America — and few, per- 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 237 

haps, which present so many interesting subjects 
to the intelhgent traveller. True, we have no lofty- 
spires, no venerable ruins, no dilapidated castles — 
but nature presents herself in her primitive garb — 
in her native grandeur. Why, therefore, should our 
travelled gentlemen expatiate with so much enthu- 
siasm on the sublime and picturesque beauties of 
Switzerland, Scotland, and the confines of Ger- 
many, while their own country can boast of so 
much attractive scenery? The answer, I am 
afraid, is too obvious. They leave their native 
shores to visit foreign ones, before they have ever 
journeyed far from their natal habitation, and often, 
long before they have laid up a store of marketable 
commodities (I mean ideas) which they may give 
j in exchange for those they receive from foreigners. 
! What is more sublime than the highlands of 
I the North River — what more awfully tremendous 
\ than the cataract of Niagara — what more romantic 
^ than the vale of Lebanon — what can surpass the 
i| solemn and majestic gloom of the surrounding 
ij mountains on the Gulph road — the pensive and 
j soothing silence of the groves in some of our 
|f] glades — the pastoral simplicity of those who have 
retired from life, into some of the rich valleys of 
Virginia— or the wild luxuriancy of the meadows 
of the far west. How pleasing is it to contem- 
plate that noble spirit of perseverance, which has 
enabled the laborious husbandman to climb the 
loftiest mountains, and change the rude garb of 
nature for the rich habiliments of cultivation — 
how pleasing is it to behold the verdant hills rising 
21 



238 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

amphitheatrically around — to observe the progres- 
sive influence of the departing sun on the distant 
Alleghanies, or the bright orb of day rising in the 
pride of his splendour, gilding them with his 
ruddy light, and chasing the fogs fantastically 
formed upon their lofty tops ! 

But enough, and more than enough of 

these mawkish reflections upon the beauties of 
nature, be they in the old or in the new world ! 
The fact is that sometimes these raptures on the 
wonders of creation, and especially when committed 
to paper, remind me of my childish disappointment, 
and even loathing, when first, in an apothecary's 
shop, I tasted largely of mamia! Its sweetness 
seduced me to take of it a large lump, and soon its 
nauseating combination of bitter and of mawkish 
sweetness, occasioned me to repent my greedy 
rashness — and so now, I can scarce look back 
upon what I have indited about mountains, and 
streams, and rocks, and beasts, and birds, (things 
most lovely to behold and to think of, but which so 
often loose their delicate flavours when embodied 
in words, unless poetical^) without being strongly 
reminded thereby of my boyish horror of manna! 

It so happened, however, that on my 

arriving at Antibes, I met at the locanda with a 
valued female friend, 'all away across the blue 
waters from America' — and who is one of our most 
accomphshed countrywomen. A thousand remi- 
niscences of my own dear land rushed into my 
mind — and her refined soul — her lovely manners — , 
her varied accomplishments, all seemed to force | 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 239 

upon my mind the general superiority, in our 
country, of that sex over ours! 

American female beauty, though like the early 
deciduous blossoms of the fairest flowers, is con- 
fessedly eminent, as long as it endures, which 
alas ! like 

*The sand within the transitory glass,' 

passes so fleetly by us, that we have scarce time 
suflicient to note the brilliant, though brief riches 
of her varied beauties : for, as Spencer saith, 

*If saphyrs, lo ! her eyes be saphyrs plain ; 

If rubies, lo ! her lips be rubies sound ; 

If pearls, her teeth be pearls, both pure and sound ; 

If ivory, her forehead ivory ween ; 

If gold, her locks are finest gold on ground ; 

If silver, her fair hands are silver sheen : 

But that which fairest is, but few behold. 

Her mind adorned with virtues manifold.' 

And yet these personal charms seldom enduue 
as in other lands ; but the excellences of her 
heart and mind grow with her growth, and 
strengthen with her strength. 

In some parts of our country the disparity be- 
tween the sexes, in moral as well as in intellectual 
worth, is very striking: the hardy occupations of 
the former, leave them but little opportunity to em- 
bellish mind or manners; and the somewhat recluse 
and easy life of the latter, invite to study, and to 
much, comparative, refinement. But, even in those 
sections of our extensive country, where men are 
well educated, and in which the accomplishments 
and graces and polish of life, are not neglected by 
them, the women, as it seems to me, are often 



240 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

relatively, their superiors in the relations of sister, 
daughter, mother, friend ! — and fuller of tact, of 
common sense, of sober judgment, good taste, 
domestic economy, colloquial talent, purity of 
diction, and of worldly policy, than their hus- 
bands, brothers, and male friends are apt to be. 
Whence, then, arises this absence of comparative 
merit in our men? — mainly, I think, from the 
demoralizing tendencies and influences of our ultra- 
democracy, — the women being, very often, at the 
opposite point of the political firmament from that 
of their lords — also, from the trafficking spirit so 
universal among us — from the necessary toils of 
the men, who know and feel the evils of a re- 
stricted purse, and the consequent importance of 
money-making. Those who are quite at ease in 
their pecuniary condition, and when they happen 
to* be free of petty ambition, and of the political 
mania which maddens others, become sufficiently 
aristocratic to feel the dignity of human character; 
and are soon transferred into sensible, refined, 
graceful, and virtuous beings ; and withal, are far 
more amiable. I have often thought I could 
almost gauge a man's purse by the scale of his 
democracy; which often becomes flaming, and 
reaches even the boiling point, when he is poor, 
and yet sinks to zero, as soon as fortune smiles 
upon him ! — and so it is with all the intermediate 
degrees. Not that a rich man loves his species 
less — but that he deals less in fulsome flattery, 
talks less of the 'rights of man,' of the 'sovereignty 
of the people ;' and, in fine, of all those topics 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 241 

which widen the too natural breach that severs 
the various classes of society. Not so with women[; 
they indulge in no such crude notions of ultra- 
politics; but are charitable to the poor, reverence 
virtue in whom ever found, regard all men by the 
standard of moral and of intellectual worth, and de- 
sire to see every son and daughter of Adam hold 
that position alone in society, to which their merits 
entitle them. 

And though by our demi-barbarous law, the 
existence of a woman be merged in that of her 
husband, and she be sub potestate viri as to more 
things than her own and his property, she still 
preserves her native dignity, counsels her husband 
with the gentleness of an angel, looks into the 
future for him — and, if adverse fortunes overtake 
him, she is the first to suggest the means of either 
bettering their condition, or of maintaining that 
equanimity so essential to further action. 

The Common Ijaw of England, which is gene- 
rally ours in all that appertains to woman, is far 
from being a code of gallantry— no love-sick knights 
devoted to 'ladies fair,' ever penned a line of it; all 
is a chronicle of invidious distinctions, of oppressive 
encroachments on the rights of woman ! Her 
personal estate vests in her lord, by the very act of 
marriage — her lands and tenements are for his use ; 
and, if a child be born, though death remove it the 
instant after, {provided it be heard to cry infra 
quatuor muris !) the whole of her real estate vests 
in the husband during his life, if he survive his 
wife: and, even if there be trust estate settled 
2i# 



342 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

upon the wife, and vested in trustees for the ex- 
press purpose of protecting it against the husband, 
and even against her own acts, and with the hope 
and expectation that his sohcitations, and his 
powers, will prove of no avail in converting it to 
his uses, — yet, still in such a case, our more than 
barbarous law (in this respect) has decreed, that if 
the husband and wife unite in a deed to transfer 
such trust property to pay the hushand?s debtSy it is 
a valid conveyance — and even though the trustees 
had no knowledge of the conveyance, or even 
when done in disregard of their wishes ! Oh, 
reform it utterly — seek for wisdom on this subject 
from the counsels of the Roman Civil Law ; and, 
as to the wife's estate at least, secure it to her effec- 
tually^ so that we may hear no more of the harorCs 
supremacy, and of the feme coverfs proprietary 
non-entity ! I think, when knowledge becomes 
more generally diffused among us, this blur upon 
the scutcheon of our legal character, must soon 
pass away.' 

Now, the matter of knowledge reminds 

me of its great excellence, especially where the 
people are all law-makers, as well as law-breakers, 
and of the solemn duty of our government to foster 
it, and of parents to value it beyond all other 
means of becoming rich ! 

Well doth Sophocles say, 

« The noblest employment of man is to assist man,"* 

for the acquisition, and imparting of knowledge, 
is certainly the most honourable and pleasurable of 
our employments. In the pursuit of literature and 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 243 

of science, a philanthropic mind experiences a de- 
lightful anticipation of the pleasure which learning 
will afford him, as a means of benej&ting mankind. 
A richly cultivated mind, is ever a liberal and 
generous one ; it delights in the diffusion of know- 
ledge, and has the greatest satisfaction in enno- 
bling and expanding the minds of others. Seneca 
used to say that he would spurn the proffered gift 
of wisdom, if on condition not to impart it to 
others ; and Cicero considered the pleasure of 
instructing others, as one of the principal induce- 
ments to the acquisition of knowledge. It appears 
10 have been evidently the intention that man 
should assist man, since by giving him the faculty 
of speech, it designed him for a sociable being; 
and there can be no society between ignorance and 
knowledge. The various degrees of talent or of 
genius, the natural turn which one man has for 
one branch of science, or of art, and another for 
quite a different kind, is strong proof that nature 
intended that each should cultivate his peculiar 
talent, and benefit society by the results of his 
labours. 'Nature has been much too frugal,' says 
Mrs. Barbauld, 'to heap together all manner of 
shining qualities in one brilliant mass'— the poet, 
therefore, the sculptor, and the painter, should 
respectively improve his taste and his genius ; and 
all should willingly bring the fruits of their study 
into the general stock. 

The ancients, as far as they possessed the 
means, appear to have been very liberal in the 
communication of their knowledge to the world. 



244 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

Paulum sepultae distat inertiae 
Celata virtus, 

says Horace — and his illustrious cotemporary, the 
Mantuan poet, places in the Elysian paradise, those 
who, by the invention of useful arts, had instructed 
and adorned life. 

Inventus — qui vitam excoluere per artes, 
Quisque sui memores alios fecere merendo. 

The same expansive views are evident in the 
writings of Addison, in those of Johnson, of Bud- 
gel, Steel, Hawkesworth, Thornton, Moore; and 
in the whole list of periodical writers, whose object 
was more the diffusion of knowledge, the meliora- 
tion of society, the suppression of vice and folly in 
whatever garb, and however fashionable, than the 
hope of fame, or of lucre : and their influence on 
the manners of the times is their strongest recom- 
mendation. 

Ridicule is a powerful weapon in the hands of 
a virtuous and ingenious writer — it has been 
crowned with success, when the strongest argu- 
ments, the chastest rhetoric, the zealous effusions ' 
of the sage, and of the divine have wholly failed. 
Ridicule, therefore, has been a constant instrument 
of attack upon the follies and vices of the day ; it 
must be delicately used, however, if it would attain 
its desired effect; and none should attempt to 
wield it, but such as have strong sense, as well 
as genuine wit and humour. 

In our own country that charming little work, 
known by the appropriate name of Salmagundi, 
was among the earliest of our satirical prose works. 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 246 

To the language of Addison, the elegant simplicity 
of Goldsmith, and the pungency of Swift, its classi- 
cal author united a fertile and chaste imagination, 
and a rare but subdued humour truly delightful. 
I love to look back on those primitive times of our 
literature : it is refreshing to remember how one 
little work of genuine ridicule, of sound morals, 
and of chaste style, turned all hearts and minds 
inward ; compelled them to think on themselves, 
as well as on their neighbours ; thereby refining 
our manners, and causing us to abjure many pre- 
scriptive follies. The silly things of high life — 
the coarseness of social intercourse, — the idle pre- 
tensions of parvenus — the 'whimwams,' and idio- 
syncrasies of crusty bachelors, and of splenetic old 
maids — the ignorance and mendacity of foreign 
post-road travellers — the absurdities and ineffi- 
ciency of a windy, wordy logocracy, are dealt with 
in a manner, so delightfully novel to us at that 
time, and with a pen so evidently of masters, as 
produced the happiest effect — whilst the flattering 
reception of a first work, secured to their country 
a writer (I may say writers) whose more matured 
productions have resulted in little else than a 
continued series of well merited laurels, growing 
brighter and brighter ; and not alone on the brow 
of their gifted authors, but on the language, litera- 
ture, and even science of our country. 

Another periodical, somewhat prior in time, and 
of a different and far more miscellaneous nature, 
was the Port Polio, a valuable repository of 
polite and elegant original literature. I love, also, 



346 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

to dwell on Dennie's time. No one was more 
successful in the happy combination of the useful 
and amusing than this elegant scholar, pure writer, 
and kind sustainer of nascent talent — and of him 
it may emphatically be said, 

Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci. 

From the establishment of the Port Folio we 
may commence the sera of American taste for 
literature ; it elicited latent talents, encouraged 
laudable emulation, diffused a more correct know- 
ledge of our language, and of good writing, and 
inculcated a wider taste for the classics, for the 
fine arts, and for the elegant sciences — in all of 
which Joseph Dennie's disinterested and unwea- 
ried zeal, is worthy of all commendation. 

The periodicals of Boston, of New York, and 
of Baltimore came on in quick succession — the 
first more learned, thorough, and well written, as 
there were generally more able scholars among 
the New Englanders, and more extensive facilities 
of every kind; and their labours of the pen, more- 
over, were addressed to a more enlightened, and 
reading community. And, what a galaxy of fine 
writers arose upon the foundations raised by these 
fathers of our literature! What a list of brilliant 
stars might be given, maugre that some in foreign 
lands, have said 'who reads an American book?' — 
but such persons ask not that question now — 
and if they do, they contradict it by their prac- 
tice — witness Cooper, Bird, Hall, Sedgwick, Web- 
ster, Walsh, Sparks, Ware, Flint, Paulding, Griffith, 
Stevens, Willis, Kennedy, Fay, Abbot, Slidei; the 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 247 

livings junior — and that prince of historians, Pres- 
coTT, and the great mathematician and astronomer, 
Bowditch — and some hundreds more; and hke- 
wise without naming our small, but rich list of 
genuine poets I 

It may be truly affirmed, then, that within the 
short span of about thirty years, our nation im- 
proved with marvellous rapidity, in sound and 
beautiful literature, and also in many arts and 
sciences ; and that, from a mere speck in the 
horizon, at the commencement of the present 
century, (for authorship was then scarcely known 
among us,) we now find theology, medicine, law, 
mathematics, the mechanic arts, languages, and 
general literature, signally advanced; and books 
on each have been written, which command the 
warm praises of the ripest scholars of the old 
world — and indeed, all departments of useful 
knowledge have flourished, save politics alone; 
for that sublime subject hath, past all doubt, 
been theoretically, as well as practically, on the 
retrograde, ever since we forsook the lustrous 
paths of the fathers of our Constitution. 

A large portion of our young men are dedicated 
to the profession of law, or of medicine. The 
former especially requires of them the study of a 
varied knowledge — a thorough command of lan- 
guage, a good style in speaking, and in composi- 
tion — all of which, as it seems to me, scarce receive 
the attention from them, which the highest rank in 
their profession demands. If the improvement of 
others does not ofler them a sufficient inducement 



248 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

to write, the great advantage it would be to them- 
selves, after they come to the bar, should have its 
influence. This is to be sure, a selfish motive, 
and should ever be a secondary one — for I have 
known many clients to sufier, from their patrons' 
little acquaintance with the art of composition, and 
even from their want of general knowledge, how- 
ever learned they may have been in Coke and in 
Bacon. 

But some, again, are of an opposite class, and 
justify their much acquaintance with Sir Walter, 
with Mr. Bulwer, with Mr. Boz and with Mr. 
Slick, and their small respect for my Lord Coke's 
Institutes, by alleging that much study of such 
dry law,, cramps the genius, destroys taste, and 
vitiates the style! whilst others, too fond of the 
musty folios and quartos, 

<Tread on flowers of taste, 
Yet stoop to pick the pebbles from the waste. 
Profound in trifles, they can tell how short 
Were ^sop's legs, how large was Tally's wart!' 

Such students will spend weeks in reading Booth 
on Real Actions, whilst Selwyn's Nisi Prius lies 
neglected on the shelf Pliny's Natural History, 
or Derham's Physicotheology are affectedly conned 
over, whilst Smellie and Buffon, or even the admi- 
rable similar works of the present day, are greatly 
slighted! With such beings, the old-fashioned phi- 
losophy of Descartes, the black-letter quartos of the 
alchemists, the astrologers, and necromancers, the 
complexities of syllogisms, the metaphysics of per- 
sonal identity, and the whole lumber of justly-for- 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 249 

gotten learning, are preferred to the masterly treatises 
issued by the Societies for the diffusion of useful 
knowledge, and to the graceful and solid literature 
that does exist, if pains be taken to select it, from 
amidst the vast issues of the modern press. To 
such deluded persons, of both classes, I would 
recommend as a model, the life of Sir William 
Jones, whose vast mind grasped the system of 
general jurisprudence, and united with it the 
whole circle of science, and of polite literature, 
as also many languages, and several elegant ac- 
complishments. I would also refer him to our 
own countrymen, Kent and Story, whose varied 
learning has so largely embellished their deep 
researches in the law ; and who never found their 
genius cramped by the common law; and never 
permitted an overweening fondness for black-letter 
lore, to dim their vision of the great beauties that 
environ the paths of lighter authors. 

The observation of Sir WiUiam Jones, that 
*Law is a jealous science, and admits of no asso- 
ciation with the muses,' has been advanced by 
some as a justification of their almost total neglect 
of belle-lettre reading. Any one acquainted with 
the character of that great man, must readily 
perceive that he never intended that we should 
neglect such information, whilst engaged in the 
study and practice of law — but merely that the 
fascinations of the literas humaniores, and more 
especially poetry^ are so great, as often to create 
a disrelish for drier and more abstruse pages of 
the law, and that, whatever our vocation in life 
22 



250 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

may be, our primary duty is to cultivate that with 
a more special devotion. But polite literature, a 
felicitous elocution, chaste language, varied know- 
ledge, pure writing, are all essential to the lawyer; 
and none can ever be so busy, but that he will 
have many vacancies of time, which may be most 
profitably employed in the cultivation of these 
auxiliaries to his science. 

Neque semper arcum tendit Apollo, 

is as true in the law, as in any other vocation 
whatever. Such recreations from the toils of se- 
vere study and practice, are commended to us, 
as well by experience as common sense — they 
cheer him in his more difficult pursuits, and afford 
a sweet relaxation, whilst they add largely to his 
means of usefulness. General literature, and com- 
position, as also translating, are often more useful 
in restoring the tone of the mind, than a total 
abstraction from study — for the mind, like a che- 
mical menstruum^ may be saturated with one 
species of knowledge, and yet receive another 
with great avidity. Sir William, when he applied 
himself to the study of law, made that his chief 
employment, but was far from neglecting the 
pleasures and advantages of more polite reading. 
Such excuses, therefore, as are often given by 
young men, for not more frequently composing, 
are futile and totally unfounded; and the alleged 
want of time would ill become, as Shenstone says, 
^even a cobler, with ten or a dozen children de- 
pending upon a patching-end.' 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 251 

The preceding discussions about the beauties 
of nature — the superiority of our fair country- 
women over our own 4ords of the creation' — our 
crude law respecting their marital rights — the 
value of knowledge, and the duty to impart it 
freely — our early and improving literature — and 
the false views of two classes of our young men, 
in regard to their studies, all grew out of my 
long walk over the Appenines, and my dehght on 
meeting at Antibes with one of my valued female 
friends 

I found myself in a few days thereafter 

in Rome. I had often heard of the lamentable 
ignorance of the Italians, and even of the generali- 
ty of their nobles — and that some even of them, 
could neither read nor write, and yet that they 
were very happy ! I could scarce credit this ; but 
my incredulity vanished, upon witnessing in the 
church of Santa Maria del Popolo^ an attempt of 
a priest during nearly an hour, to instruct some 
fourteen little urchins in their prayers ! The scene 
wholly baffles description ; and did so outrage all 
custom and nature, as before understood by me, 
that even memory and imagination are now at 
fault fully to realize its details! I do remember, 
however, that the boys were 7nasters, the master a 
slavBj and a very ass ! They repeatedly threw 
their hats into his face, laughed and howled terrifi- 
cally, cast summersets over the benches, pinned 
papers to his robe, obtained possession of his cap, 
placed it on their own heads, and then on a small 
pole, furtively snatched from him his slender emblem 



252 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

of authority and of punishment, caused him to rage 
and to laugh alternately, and then to scold, and 
anon to entreat ! At length the time of their dis- 
missal came, they rushed out of the church with i , 
shouts and screams, and their merry laughter ^ * 
might be heard deep down the Corso, and the Via 
di Repetti! On inquiring of the good-natured 
priest (who seemed quite exhausted with his la- 1 j 
hours of scolding, laughing, and whipping with ^ ' 
ati instrument that could not hurt, and which he 
applied as softly as if afraid to inflict the least pain) 
why he did not soundly cudgel the young rebels, f j 
he shrugged his shoulders, and mildly but laconi-' 
cally replied, that if he did so, they would not 
attend at all — that it was with difiiculty they could 
be prevailed upon to come at all — that many of 
them were the sons of the first people, and others 
were poor boys who had no other way of learning 
their prayers! Here, then, the boys were merry 
little grigs, with all their desperate ignorance, and 
total want of discipline and of moral culture — the 
priest seemed to be equally so — and those youths, 
when they become men, and take possession of 
their huge, and often comfortless, but ever tasteful \j 
palaces, will be found as light-hearted as the gor- ' 
geous butterflies that revel in their clear blue sky, 
and genial atmosphere ! 

Does knowledge, then, increase our hap- 
piness ? Some are disposed seriously to question 
this, and would be the more disposed so to do, 
upon a superficial view of things in Italy. Happi- 
ness is a relative term, and signifies some satisfac- 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 253 

tion of the soul, induced by some good, or a well- 
founded hope of acquiring the same. If we are un- 
conscious of the value of what we possess, or of the 
vast superiority of the possessions of others, we 
may be neither happy, nor miserable.-^ But still, 
the multiplied sources of happiness which a melio- 
rated state furnishes, above that of a state of na- 
ture, are so evident, that nothing but a half crazed 
brain could conceive a doubt of the real advan- 
tages arising from the cultivation of those faculties, 
which characterize man as the lord of the creation. 
The happiness enjoyed by an Indian is merely 
negative, whilst that of the civilized man arises, not 
from the mere absence of pain, but consists of 
something more positive^ viz : the pleasures of con- 
templation, reflection and study, whilst every doubt 
is answered and every wish gratified. A portion 
of natural but destructive independence is given 
up by entering into society, but political conserva- 
tion, and innumerable other advantages result from 
the union. 

Whilst it is admitted that the savage is happy in 
some sense, the superior degree of felicity enjoyed 
by man in society, is by no means impeached ; the 
Indian, though an alien to every comfort and lux- 
ury of civilized life, is no doubt contented. He 
possesses nearly all that he aspires to, but his aspi- 
rations being very limited, (as his knowledge is 
contracted) his happiness is rather the absence of 
pain, than that internal satisfaction which arises 
from the possession of good. The content expe- 
rienced by man in the savage state, is a wise and 
22^ 



254 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

kind provision of nature : but that this is the 
natural state of man, and that the approximation 
to civilization is a recession from that sphere in 
which nature intended us always to act, is one of 
those wild chimeras which levels every barrier that 
distinguishes man from the brute. Nature gave us 
minds susceptible of improvement. She endowed 
us with faculties which, if cultivated, secure feli- 
city. And, as the pursuit of happiness is one of 
the final causes of our creation, it is impious to 
suppose that the exercise of those faculties was 
designed to counteract our endeavours after hap- 
piness. 

If the state of ignorance is the natural state of 
man, our modern philosophers must at least admit, 
that it never had an existence ; and a natural state 
which never existed, is certainly preposterous ; for 
neither history, tradition nor analogy, will let us 
suppose that there ever was a period in which man 
existed without the smallest footstep of art — for, if 
the gun be unnatural^ the bow and arrow is also 
so. If the luxuries and elegancies of meliorated 
and polished life be unnatural, so are the conve* | 
niences of savage life when they differ in the 
smallest degree from those enjoyed by the brute. 
Our love of learnings as affording us inexhaustible 
sources of happiness, is much increased, when W0 I 
contrast the wonderful art of cultivated man, and 
the transcendancy of civilized and polished life, 
with the ignoble and contracted views of untutored 
nature. Whether or not ignorance be the natural 
state of man, there can be no doubt, but that the 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 255 

invention and improvement of the arts and sci- 
ences, are the only means of mehorating the aspe- 
rities and evils to which man is heir ; and if this 
is established, it is madness to call the infelicitous 
the natural state. 

Let us view the savage of the wilderness. We 
behold him solitary — exposed to every inclemency 
of the seasons, diseased, and without the tender 
attentions of friends and relatives ; or, let us con- 
template him surrounded with the spontaneous 
products and luxuries of the earth. They satisfy 
hunger, but still are tasteless and insipid, for the 
want of sufficient culinary means — they have no 
sauces, no stimulating condiments, are often even 
without salt; but as nature yields them, so are 
they to be eaten. His roof is the canopy of hea- 
ven, every shower that descends, every wind that 
blows, every snow that falls, has no regard for 
him — but like the brute, he has to seek an occa- 
sional asylum from the raging tempest, or from the 
ravenous assaults of the prowling hyena or hungry 
bear, in some gloomy cavity of the earth or rocks ; 
and thus he leads a sad dissocial life. 

How different is the state of cultivated man ! 
surrounded by his friends and relatives, he enjoys 
in their society the pleasures of social and learned 
converse. Every sensibility, every passion or affec- 
tion of his mind is refined. The luxuries of life 
now minister largely to his comfort and pleasure ; 
the rocks are hewn into splendid palaces, and the 
lofty trees into ornamental and useful habitations. 
The tempest may howl, or the sun dart his rays 



256 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

with all his fury, he is secured from both; all 
nature is subservient to him, and all her beauties 
become visible, and the sources of much positive 
happiness : in fact, man in his savage state is the 
object of pity ; but when the powers of his mind 
are exerted — when his faculties, which before were 
merely in potentia^ are brought into action and use- 
fulness, he then becomes the noblest work of God's 
creation ; it is then, and then onlyj we can say 
with Shakspeare — ^ What a piece of work is man ! 
how noble in reason ! how infinite in faculties ! in 
form, and moving, how express and admirable! in 
action, how like an angel ! in apprehension, how 
like a God ! the beauty of the world ! the paragon 
of animals !' — for it is in society alone that these 
faculties are evinced, and these godlike qualities 
shewn — and in society alone is happiness to be 
found. 

So again, the uninstructed eye is entirely insen- 
sible to numerous latent beauties, which the mirror 
of philosophy and learning reflects in glowing co- ^ 
lours on the well informed and expanded mind — 
on it the beauties of nature and art, the harmony of 
sounds, the charms of poetry, and the richness of 
colouring, the grace and masterly designs of the 
painter, have their due effect, and are so many 
sources of intellectual beatitude. 

In forming a correct estimate of the degree of 
positive happiness experienced by man in the 
savage state, we have only to consider men in 
civil society as possessing the various degrees of 
knowledge, from a simple peasant to the profound 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 257 

philosopher. A man unacquainted with the beau- 
ties of composition, will read the poems of Black- 
more, who ^vrit to the rumbling of his coach's 
wheels,' with much the same feelings as the sweet- 
est lines of Pope ; and will experience little more 
emotion from the imagination of Shakspeare, the 
delicacy of Addison, the sublimity of Milton, or 
the purity of Swift, than from the senseless jargon 
of newspaper scribblers, or the wretched versifica- 
tion of some modern poetasters. 

To one unacquainted with the principles of 
music, a concert soon grows tiresome; or, if enter- 
tained, he is a stranget to that exquisite satisfac- 
tion experienced by those who are well acquainted 
with the theory of sounds. 

So alsO; he who is unaccustomed to the contem- 
plation of the beauties of nature, is an ahen to the 
great satisfaction which the mind receives from the 
picturesque beauties of landscape ; but those 

'Whom Nature's works can charm, with God himself 
Hold converse ; grow familiar day by day 
With his conceptions, act upon his plan 
And form to his, the relish of their souls.' 

The vegetable world displays a new creation to 
the botanist ; the formal walks of a garden, where 
nature appears to have been tortured into stiffness, 
are not his only resorts, but 

'Led o'er vales and mountains, to explore 

What healing virtue swells the tender veins 
Of herbs and iiowers ; or what the beams of morn 
Draw forth, distilling from the clifted rind 
In balmy tears' 

he becomes acquainted with a thousand beauties. 



258 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

a thousand harmonies which ^ 'scape the vulgar 
unobserving eye.' 

Let us suppose a person surrounded by various 
specimens of ancient and modern painting, yet 
totally unacquainted with those points which con- 
stitute the beauties of this divine art. What would 
claim his first attention ? The richness of colour- 
ing no doubt, though the piece might be exces- 
sively defective in grace and design. So the 
strongest masses of light, the most perspicuous 
objects, and the strongest shades, however un- 
happy in disposition, would perhaps yield him as 
much pleasure as the finest paintings of the most 
celebrated artists. But improve his mind, ground 
him well in the rules of the art, and the various 
sources of beauty, and then observe his taste, his 
judgment, his sensibility — he is alive to every 
beauty of proportion, invention, colouring, <fcc. — 
he at once distinguishes the characteristics of the 
schools, he perceives the wonderful design of 
Angelo, the character and masterly disposition 
which distinguishes Raphael, the grace and har- 
mony of Corregio, and the chaste but inimitable 
richness of colouring which characterizes Titian. 

All these are valuable sources of pleasure which 
are only opened to us, by the cultivation of those 
faculties with which nature hath endowed us. 

Architecture is another of the polite arts which 
afibrds both comfort and pleasure. A well pro- 
portioned house, a richly decorated church, or a 
magnificent palace, pleases the clown as well as 
the architect. He perceives the vast superiority of 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 259 

these edifices in point of utility and grandeur to 
his own cottage, but his sensation is not exquisite^ 
it is rather astonishment than a genuine sensibility 
to the beauties of proportion and design. It may 
be said, that he who is ignorant of the rules of art, 
will be pleased with every thing, whereas he who 
knows the sources of beauty, will be so exquisitely 
sensible to every defect, as to experience more pain 
than pleasure : there can be no doubt but that the 
absence of variety where it ought to be found, the 
want of uniformity or symmetry, and the con- 
sciousness of the unfitness of the object for its 
end, produce unpleasant sensations in a cultivated 
mind ; but this seldom occurs to so great a degree 
as to be really offensive, and at all events will not 
justify ignorance of the fine arts considered merely 
as sources of pleasure. In fact we may justly look 
for happiness, and for the sentiments of virtue and 
benevolence in every state, in proportion to the 
progress of science, and the encouragement of the 
fine arts. 

From the church of Santa Maria del 

Popoloj w^hich gave rise to this inquiry as to the 
sources of happiness, I went to the Collegia di 
Propaganda Fide — and what a different scene 
was there, my countrymen! After viewing it for 
some time, I found myself quite in a dilemma, and 
was cast all aback, as to my musings about the 
rude boys, and the incompetent teacher, in the 
church I had just left ; for, in the Propaganda, I 
found students from nearly every region of the 
world, gratuitously, and as it is said, thoroughly 



i 



260 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

educated! There I found blacks from Central 
Africa, Indians from the wilds of America, Greeks 
and Persians, Arabians and Egyptians, Turks and 
Jews, Hollanders and Highlanders, Armenians and 
Albanians, English and French, Kentuckians and 
Tennesseans, Syrians and Bulgarians, Germans 
and lUyrians; and I know not how many more, 
all instructed in their own languages! In addition 
to these are taught Latin, Hebrew, Samaritan, 
Sanscrit, ancient Greek, Italian, Coptic, ancient 
Armenian, Mandaican, Rezian, the language of 
the Ottawas, and various others — in all of which 
tongues and languages, were pronounced and re- 
cited at their public commencement, orations^ 
poems, &c. ! The library is said to contain only 
about twenty thousand volumes ; and the museum 
of oriental curiosities is somewhat extensive, and 
no doubt extremely rare and valuable for their 
purposes. Let any one, also, listen for an hour 
to the learned and amiable Mezzofanti^ who is 
said to converse familiarly in no less than seventy 
languages, tongues, and dialects ! — let him also 
visit the public libraries ; the Vatican, the Capito- 
line, Clementine, Chiarimonte, Kercheriano, and 
the other museums ; as likewise the numerous 
Studios, Colleges, and the other places of instruc- 
tion, and then account, in the best way he may, 
for the fact, if it exists, of Italian illiteratenessl 
The day was nearly spent at the Pro- 
paganda; but the hour for my return to my 
lodgings, had not yet arrived; so I resolved on 
continuing my delightful toils for that day, by a 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 261 

visit to the Palazzo Rospigliosi. I found it built 
on the ruins of Constantine's baths, by the cardinal 
Scipio Borghese, from whom it passed to the 
cardinal Bentivoglio, then to the Mazzarine family; 
and lastly, to the noble house of Rospigliosi, 

The Casino of the garden contains on the ceiling 
of its principal saloon, the much celebrated Aurora, 
by Guido Reni, perhaps the finest fresco in the 
world. . In this inimitable composition, the great 
master has displayed the whole strength of his 
invention — the purest taste — the richest and most 
appropriate colouring — and the utmost skill and 
accuracy of outline. It is a picture, of all others, 
that charms the inexperienced amateur, by match- 
less beauties of form and of colouring, whilst it 
equally delights the connoisseur and most critical 
observer, by its fruitful fancy, and the perfection 
of its artistical execution. It represents Aurora 
preceding the car of day, gradually unveiling 
herself, and strewing the earth with flowers. In 
the front of this lovely figure, and sailing in thin 
air, is Phosphorus, a personification of the dawn, 
under the form of a beautiful infant, with a flam- 
beau, and whose star proclaims the coming day, 
but whose rays are too weak to dissipate the 
shades of night, which yet surround the dawn. 
In his resplendent car, sits Apollo, the god of day, 
gracefully holding the reins, and guiding his four 
fiery coursers, which are bounding through the 
heavens, and dissipating the mists that linger yet 
about the fair goddess of the morn, and her youth- 
ful messenger. Attendant upon the god, are seven 
23 



262 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

lovely and graceful nymphs, supposed to represent 
the Hours. They are variously attired, full of 
immortal freshness, and are radiant with delight 
at the approach of day ! But the beauty of this 
enchanting picture, rests not alone in the exquisite 
forms I have mentioned; but is greatly heighten- 
ed by the perfect harmony between surrounding 
nature, and the action of the piece. The ground 
of the picture beautifully unites in disclosing the 
whole design. The clouds of night in distant 
places, seem but gradually dissolving; those nearer 
to the goddess, are rolling away ; a golden transpa- 
rency encompasses Apollo; and on the mountains, 
beneath Aurora, the streaks of morning light are 
becoming more and more visible ! The scene is 
executed in figures as large as life ; and is still in 
its original freshness. 

The palace has many other paintings by the 
greatest masters, as also various sculptures and 
curiosities of great interest — but no one, on the 
same day, has much heart for any other painting, 
especially about the hour of five o'clock before din- 
ner — so, leaving his resplendent majesty, Apollo, 
to pursue the rosy-fingered goddess, whilst she is 
strgwing flowers in preparation for the gayety of 
morn, I departed with hasty steps, and with cha- 
racteristic mortality, well resolved, (in anticipation | 
of the repose of night,) to take a hearty dinner 
first . 

And this, oh, courteous reader, doth re- 
mind me of the glorious prandium which was 
ready for our little party of three on that day of 



AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 263 

mental and of body exhaustion ; and of which, in 
brief words, I must not fail to say something, as 
we have so long been dealing with the intellec- 
tuals, that thou, as well as myself, must by this 
time, be weary and truly wish that this my literary 
oUa-podrida, were suddenly transformed into a ve- 
ritable Spanish repast of the same name ! 

Know then that the dinner of that day, 

though no better, or no worse, than those of the 
preceding days, was yet discussed by us all with, 
perhaps, more than ordinmy unsentimejitalit]/ ; for 
when the mind hath been over-fed, the outer man 
must soon have generous nouriture. Considering 
that we had for some hours before been commu- 
ning with gods and goddesses, and their seven 
attendant nymphs, we deserved some credit for not 
insisting on a repast of ambrosia and of nectar. 
But had even these been present, we should soon 
have forsaken them on finding the four piping 
hot courses, which in due succession appeared — 
as follows : primo, a menestra (vermicelli soup ;) 
secondo, a stufato, (stewed beef and its savoury 
appliances;) terzo^ cavoli-fiori, (cauliflower,) and 
Pollastri (roast chickens ;) quarto, un pajo di 
piccioni, e due tordi (a pair of pigeons, and 
two thrushes ;) and lastly, by way of desert, 
apple-fritters, with its harmonious sauce, and a 

charlotte russe all, all, if thou wilt credit it 

gentle reader, (though making three good dinners 
for the three hungry diners) for just the sum of 
one scudo, and six bajocchi, or one hundred and 



264 AN OLLA-PODRIDA. 

six of our cents — the fraction of six being a 
daily perquisite for the restaurant's servant! 

'Head of Apicius !' cried I, when first I met 
in Rome with these sumptuous dinners, for so 
little of the precious metal, 'how could ViteUius, 
and Heliogabalus, and other heroes of gourman- 
derie^ almost beggar their empire by merely a few 
months' eating, as historians do so voraciously 
maintain?' But, I mean not to answer this ques- 
tion, lest my olla, on this principle may never 
end. But when I think of these Roman dinners 
of mine, I cannot help being filled with wonder 
at the anomalous facts and mysteries of political 
economy! — millions of American acres, of the 
deepest and richest soil, are daily, each crying 
out, 'come and buy me for a dollar and a quarter ^^ 
and yet, in few spots of our globe are even the 
necessaries of life so dear as they generally are 
in these United States ! An acre in perpetuity, 
full of goodly trees, of hill and of dale, of fruits 
and flowers, and copious streams — and, possibly, 
of precious metals and minerals to boot, all re- 
jected as quite too dear at government price ! — 
but an ill-cooked dinner, with a bottle of alcoholic 
Madeira, at about the price of fifteen Roman din- 
ners, is the daily tax of many travellers in our 
interminable regions ! 

And now, bidding adieu to this 011a- 

Podrida, I may possibly find in the dreams of the 
night which followed my prandium, (or rather 
coena) some topic for my next note. 



DREAMING. 265 



NOTE XIX. DREAMING. 



^BuT what are all your metaphysics worth, if 
they cannot resolve me the cause of dreaming?' 
said I, one day to a philosophical gentleman who 
had been just descanting with as much learned 
familiarity upon the mind, as if he possessed an 
accurate map of its minute topography, and un- 
derstood every spring of its varied and recondite 
action! This was said by me, moreover, with a 
brusquerie of manner that indicated my contempt 
of all transcendentalism, and especially for that 
so called learning which consists in the use of 
many esoteric words. The metaphysical gentle- 
man spoke of the hidden things of the soul, with 
such a provoking air of acquaintance, that I natu- 
rally urged him to unfold to me the mysteries of 
sleep, of reverie, of dreams, and of all such cog- 
nate topics — but to none of which could he do 
more than deal in mystic terms, and in many 
curious facts respecting them all ; and being press- 
ed for some theory of dreaming based on his inti- 
mate knowledge of mind, and the very wonderful 
facts he had disclosed, he cut the knot of his diffi- 
culty thus — ^the action of the mind during sleep,' 
said he, 'is so extremely lawless^ as to evade the 
wonted scrutiny of mental philosophers — but, when 
the nature of sleep itself shall be more fully re- 
vealed to us, the phenomena of dreaming will then 
become sufficiently plain.' 'This, however, is an 
humble concession,' rejoined I, 'and especially 
from one who has been dealing with mind, as with 
23* 



266 DREAMING. 

a familiar instrument wholly within his grasp; for, 
if the nature of sleep, of dreaming, of reverie, of 
insanity, and, indeed, of all similar states of the 
mind, wholly baf&e your researches, it seemeth to 
me the province of your boasted science is greatly 
minished — shorn of its high pretensions, and that 
doubt upon doubt, as xllp upon Alp, must conti- 
nually rise before us, with but little hope that we 
shall ever truly know any thing beyond plausible 
conjectures.' 

'By no means,' hastily replied our metaphysi- 
cian, 'would you repudiate all certainty in science, 
because there is some admitted uncertainty, or, 
even in some things, a total unacquaintance? 
Mental philosophers are profitably employed only 
when they deal with mind as a rational, and 
therefore accountable existence, which can be pre- 
dicated of the mind only during its wakeful state, 
or its equivalent, perfect sanity. We consequently 
study the mind only during its healthy action, in 
the hope of any really profitable result — that is, 
when it is guided by its laws ; and we look upon 
those fitful or lawless actions into which it is cast 
by the disarray of its bodily organs, as falling 
more within the province of physics, than of meta- 
physics. If then, we do study minds as, they may 
be affected by sleep, by dreaming, insanity, ifcc. it 
is with little hope of becoming really better ac- 
quainted with the laws of the mind itself j since 
we hold that this spiritual entity is wholly incapa- 
ble of disease; for what is denominated mental 
derangement is only ostensible — the same as when 



DREAMING. 267 

we say the sun rises — and yet the sun remains the 
same, it being the earth that has revolved — and 
so as to insanity, the mind continues the same, but 
its outlets, its organs have undergone a change; 
and so again with dreaming.' 

'The mind, in truth, has not dreamed,' con- 
tinued the sturdy metaphysician, 'it may have 
thought wisely, but the wise thoughts have been 
cast into disarray by the state of its customary 
channels — in fine, it is the derangement of the 
bodily organs, (which are but so many vehicles 
for the mind) which causes the mind itself to 
appear affected, since the media of its manifesta- 
tions are diseased, and not the intellectual entity. 
Let the physician study these states of the bodily 
organs, whilst the metaphysician restricts himself 
to the pure essence ; so that when sleep, (which is 
a quasi disease brought on by the body's exhaus- 
tion) or insanity come on, the labours of the meta- 
physician terminate — for the outlets and avermes 
of healthy mental action are then closed ; and, as 
to the mental philosopher, the mind is then in a 
lawless state.' 

An avowal so startling as this, in which truth 
and error were so strangely blended, and this, too, 
from 'lips, oracular,' as those of my metaphysical 
friend aspired to be, cast me for a moment all 
aback! But the gloss of a wordy jargon, or the 
high authority of a scholar, cannot always gild 
with delusive splendour those follies which wis- 
dom sometimes utters. I have often found that 
learned men can neither endure an exposure of 
their limited knowledge of some favourite science, 



268 DREAMING. 

nor, still less, the actually crude state of the science 
itself — and so was it with him ; for though deeply 
versed in metaphysical lore, from Aristotle and 
Plato, down to Cogan and Brown, he sought 
refuge in a folly unworthy of himself, and of his 
science; and reposed upon a distinction that 
showed, either the vanity of learning in disciplin- 
ing the mind to sober judgments, or that no little 
of what passes for knowledge is really little else 
than a mere nomenclature, the vehicle of no very 
definite thought. I therefore laconically replied 
that, 'unmixed pneumatology seemed to me the 
most idle of human studies ; and, when separated 
from its natural ally, physics, was as hopeless of 
profitable results, as would be a rigid divorce of 
the sexes !' — and so our colloquy ended. 

In what I have, therefore, to say of Dreaming, 
I at once disclaim all acquaintance with its origin, 
and its philosophy. I have no theories, metaphy- 
sical, physical, or even phrenological to offer : and 
yet, what some have thought, or fancied upon the 
the subject, need not be wholly passed by — which, 
with many curious facts respecting dreams, their 
moral and intellectual influences, and the many 
wild notions that have sullied this portion of 
human science, may afl^ord some instruction, pos- 
sibly, some amusement. 

When one poet tells us that 

*Dreams are but interludes which fancy niaJces, 
When monarch reason sleeps, this mimic wakes ; 
Compounds a medley of disjointed things, 
A mob of cobblers, and a court of kings : 
Light fumes are merry, grosser fumes are sad ; 
Both are the reasonable soul run mad.' 



i 



DREAMING. 269 

And when another, in nearly similar terms, 
declares that 

*Dreams are the children of an idle brain, 
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy ; 
Which is as thin of substance as the air ; 
And more inconstant than the wind ;' 

we have in these the so called philosophi/ of dream- 
ing! These notions have been current, and even 
popular, from the earliest ages; and, with but 
slight variations, may be found among all nations. 
And yet, is it by any means true that dreams are 
the progeny of fancy alone — that reason is then 
sound asleep — that merry dreams are generated by 
temperance, and sad ones by excess ; that light 
fumes cheer the soul, and grosser ones occasion 
sadness, and hence give rise to the agreeable 
fancies of the one class, or to the horrors and 
glooms of the other? Such notions may suit the 
philosophy of the poets, but shrink from the induc- 
tive processes of the more severe searches after 
truth. Dreams are, indeed, very often the coinage 
of an idle brain ; fancy is usually predominant m 
them ; reason is often extremely at fault ; memo- 
ry utterly faithless, and judgment totally perverted. 
But, is not the reverse of all these equally true 
sometimes ? And, if so, what becomes of the 
theory of dreaming based on this popular philo- 
sohy? How often are dreams characterized by 
the most acute reasoning — how minute and vivid 
is memory — how chaste, yet brilhant is fancy — 
how solid is judgment — how alive are all the 
feelings — how pure and sound the morals — how 



270 DREAMING. 

almost superhuman is the vision — and how con- 
sistent is the whole drama of some dreams ! Now, 
in both these classes of dreams, sleep is perfect 
and healthful; and yet in the one, the soul is 
abandoned to the wildest creations of fancy — in 
the other, every faculty seems endued with preter- 
natural vigour! The theory of ages, then, must 
be false; or, at most, can be invoked only in 
behalf of some dreams ; and, if so, it seems to 
be entitled to but little regard. 

Being myself a great dreamer, and so much so 
as to feel myself entitled to speak ea; cathedra, I 
have come to the conclusion that the very essence 
of mind consists in thought; — that it is an ever- 
thhiking entity, equally in action during sleep, as 
in wakefulness ; and that all men dream as neces- 
sarily, as the body breathes, (though, on waking, 
they may instantly forget their dreams ;) and fur- 
ther, that all animals capable of thought, must 
necessarily dream. 

Were the chronicles of dreaming faithfully given 
to the world, what a still more curious animal 
would man appear, than philosophy has yet un- 
folded him ! From my own experience, I am so 
sure of this, that should I here note (were it now 
possible for me so to do) all the curiosa and memo- 
rabilia of my sleeping existence, it is possible 
that all the tales of fiction of a century would 
scarce afford half the wonders that would thus be 
chronicled ! — dreams of exquisite enjoyment, of 
unearthly horror, of the crudest fancies, of the 
chastest imaginings — dreams of unmixed folly, of 



DREAMING. 271 

sublime wisdom, of fervid eloquence, of poetry, — 
dreams of extreme good-nature, of ugly malevo- 
lence, of violent anger, of passive submission — 
dreams of the most vivid memory, of the brightest 
reminiscences; and finally, dreams in which all 
consciousness of the past was gone — dreams in 
which long absent friends and the tenderly 
lamented dead, were all present before me, but 
without exciting the least surprise or emotion, 
and in which 1 conversed with ihem, as wholly 
oblivious of their melancholy departure, as if no 
such events had ever happened ! 

But all this, even if it were possible for me to 
set them forth with that graphic art which should 
present them as vividly to the minds of others, as 
they appeared to mine when wrapt in sleep, still 
fade away before the remarkable and strictly veri- 
table fact of the periodical repetition of dreams ! 
How great was my surprise when I first detected 
this in myself, beyond the penumbra of a doubt! — 
for, during five consecutive years, in the month of 
July, the same dream periodically returned upon 
me — so that it finally became so 'learn'd and 
conn'd by rote,' that in the very dream, I recog- 
nized my old acquaintance, anticipated the coming 
scenes, dreamed that it was but a dream; and, 
from this, derived some consolation ! — for the 
dream was not an agreeable one. This dreaming 
habit was eventually dispelled only by an exten- 
sive travel, and it then vanished from me for ever! 

Some doubting and dozing ass may, possibly, 
be not only sceptical, but think it folly to record 



272 DREAMING. 

the fact ; and, in the spirit of a sleepy philosophy, 
may sagely ask, ^cui bono V If such an one there I 
be, I shall not argue the matter with him, but 
simply assure his ass-ship that, if he will but read 
the annals of dreaming, during a period of more 
than three thousand years, he will find therein f 
equal marvels with the one now told ; and, I doubt 
not, he may also encounter sufficient precedents of | 
the hke in others, to vindicate me from the impli-*' 
cations involved in his shrug of the shoulders, his 
shake of the head, and those other criterions of|j 
deep dubiety ! 

To the more courteous reader, however, I would 
remark that the gradual fixation of habits, whether 
physical or mental, is among the most recondite 
and curious of nature's operations ; and sometimes 
exhibits such strange freaks, as to excite great won- 
der — but that these have been so well authenticated, 
as to banish all incredulity. If to this we add the 
equally mysterious, but undoubted sympathy or 
harmony between the world of inanimate matter, 
and the animal and intellectual economy of man, _ 
we are furnished with a series of phenomena that | 
would startle the most credulous, were the facts in 
the least degree doubtful. Those deeply learned J 
in such facts, and those, on the contrary, who have ■ 
never treasured up many, are the two classes least 
liable to doubt; for all nature is so full of wonders, 
that the learned are often admonished not to 
doubt — and hence become credulous ; whilst the 
ignorant possess so few of the elements wherewith 
they may deliberately doubt, that they likewise are 

\ 



DREAMING. 273 

apt to be credulous, and to yield submissively to 
mere authority. From these two causes have 
arisen many of the superstitions of the learned 
and the ignorant, with all their train of fancies. 

We sometimes, also, find that among rude na- 
tions, imagination is apt to gain such an ascen- 
dancy, that life itself is nearly a perpetual dream ! 
They sometimes conceive that men are constantly 
haunted by shadowy forms and visions ; that these 
are thin and material essences, which unceasingly 
play around the mind ; and that by indulging them 
to satiety, they will take their flight, at least for a 
time, and thus that the disease even of madness, 
being produced by these ethereal forms, may be 
mitigated, and possibly cured by them ! On this 
superstition is it that some nations, with the view 
of giving vent to the misfortunes of a superabun- 
dant fancy, establish what they call dream-feasts^ 
during which the visionaries are permitted to do 
whatever their wildest imaginations may suggest ! 
And among the Abiponian Indians, a periodical 
madness is said to exist for a short time, of which 
those afflicted by it have no consciousness what- 
ever during their long intervals of sanity ! But 
what is still more remarkable, and to our purpose, 
it is further said that the disease may be mitigated, 
nay cured, by voluntarily anticipating its vagaries, 
in a mode similar to these dream-feasts ! 

Now, all this would be comprehensible enough, 

or at lea^ it would be more believable^ were those 

who are most imaginative when aw^ke, less so 

when asleep; whereas the fact is generally the 

24 



274 DREAMING. 

reverse of this, as those dream the most, who, 
when awake, are remarkable for their fancy. And 
yet this is not invariably the case, many leaden- 
headed persons being instinct with the richest 
fancies, and much given to poetical creations, as 
soon as 

* Sleep's dewy wand 
Strok'd down their drooping lids !' 

Some philosophers have gravely told us that sleep 
and death are but twin-brothers, that the corporal 
symptoms of 'tir'd nature's sweet restorer,' are, not 
metaphorically, but actually and philosophically, 
analogous to those of death! — and hence that the 
spiritual symptoms of both must be, in a degree, 
the same. According to this idea is it that the 
mind during sleep is enabled to experience such 
deep and vivid sensations of pleasure, of pain, and 
of vision; for, being then partially disenthralled 
from its bodily connections, the mind wanders in 
a state of celestial juvenility; its perceptions are 
ardent and clear, and are often so brilliant, and 
even violent, as to fill the soul with unutterable 
joys, or with unmingled horrors! These, though 
thus powerful, are sometimes extremely evanes- 
cent, and the soul's utmost exertions fail entirely 
to realize any of them beyond a few minutes after 
sleep has passed off. 

Thus is it that dreams may well be regarded 
as a presage, though a feeble one, of the soul's 
condition after actual death; for, if ^he mind 
allied to the body, as it still is during sleep by a 
thousand latent ties, be yet capable of wandering 



DREAMING. 275 

amidst the untold beauties of heaven, or the un- 
imaginable horrors of Satan's domain ; if the 
soul, in dreams, can realize a youthful world, 
replete with light, and joys, and the most varied 
beauties, and all with a fidelity of vision — a clair- 
voyance which baffles description, and even concep- 
tion, when we are awake ; and if the soul in these 
visions of the night, can also experience scenes of 
mental, and apparently of bodily agony, equally 
beyond the reach of imagination, or of the powers 
of memory to portray them during our waking 
existence, may it not with truth be held that sleep 
and death have much in common, and that they 
who through life have dreamed much, and who 
have carefully noted the phenomena of dreaming, 
will probably have a juster conception of the bliss 
and misery of an hereafter, than those are capable 
of, who but seldom dream, or who are habitually 
inattentive to these impressive and infinitely varied 
scenes of our sleeping existence ? I think so, and 
Lord Byron hath truly said, 

Sleep hath its own world 
And a wide realm of wild reality ; 
And dreams in their development have breath, 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy. 

But one of the most remarkable of the pheno- 
mena of dreaming, and which seems to bring the 
soul's state yet closer to that of death, is the ex- 
treme rapidity with which multitudinous events 
pass through the mind, really in a moment of time, 
though seemingly in our dreams, only progres- 



276 DREAMING. 

sively, and most naturally. In such cases, the 
events, and feelings, and thoughts, and actions of 
years, as it were, flit through the brief span of but 
a few hours, sometimes of but as many minutes ! 
In them extensive countries are traversed — thou- 
sands of occurrences seem to follow in orderly 
sequence — all the alternations of joys and of sor- 
rows are experienced — momentous plans are formed 
and deliberated, and executed; and tlie exciting 
drama, almost of a life, is regularly gone through— 
and yet, when the busy sleeper hath been rousedA 
from his couch, exhausted by the pressure of so 
many exciting scenes and events, he is astonished 
to find, perhaps, that he has been slumbering in 
his comfortable fauieuilj only during an half hour 
after dinner! 

So again, some have slept for days, others 
have been in a kind of trance for several weeks, 
and yet with no note of time, with no cog- 
nizance of their existence, or with no visions 
that memory could grasp; and, after these long 
intervals, they have awoke with no more con- 
sciousness of the past, than if during these periods 
they had been blotted out of existence, or than if 
their souls had been entirely separated from their 
clayey tenements ! In such cases, time seems to 
have been annihilated, and the soul seems to have 
returned to the Eternal Fountain of intellectual- 
ity — and yet we know, physiologically, that its 
ties with the body have been so perfectly maintained, 
that there has been no loss of vitality, but rather a 
gain in the vis insita! May not the eternity which 



i 



DREAMING. 277 

follows death, pass on forever with the same un- 
consciousness of time, however full it may be of 
visions of bliss, or of horror, as the case may be ? 
Some have so supposed ; for time and eternity 
must differ, not only in point of duration, but es- 
sentially ; the former being that consciousness of 
portions of eternity, which belongs only to Jinite 
existences ; and the latter, though with the §ame 
consciousness of pleasure and of pain, is yet 
wholly without note of time. Even in the case 
just stated, of sleep during many days or weeks, 
the mind, no doubt, was continually thinking; and 
the sleepers, during their long communion with 
Morpheus, and the rest, were still subject to joys 
and sorrows, but with little, if any, note of time — 
and hence, on awaking, with no power of reminis- 
cence. But I fear I am getting into metaphysics, 
which had better have been left to my friend, 
whose philosophy, in the beginning of my Note, I 
so little prized, but whose conversation seduced me 
into this hunting after the marvels of dreaming, 
and of the invisible world. 

I have often thought that were a long continued 
series of inquiries instituted respecting sleep; were 
the visions, and dreams, and reveries, and fancies 
of persons of all ages, and sexes, and conditions, 
and countries, carefully and authentically collect- 
ed — and were all of these arranged, under such a 
system of classes, orders, genera, species and varie- 
ties, as a truly Linnasan metaphysician and physi- 
cian might form, the result of such an inductive 
process would scarce fail to yield a most curious 
24* 



278 DREAMING. 

and profitable chapter in the chronicles of mental , . 
philosophy. Plants, minerals, animals — nay, even * f 
lightnings, clouds, and snows, have been thus 
carefully arranged and classified, and why not 1 1 
dreams? Of dreams, there are some which seem * 
to be common to the whole race of man ; and it is 
not a little curious to note the variations, not in 
esseace, but in minor details, which even the , 
classes of dreams endure, according to the highly . 
civihzed, or savage state of the nation to which * 
the sleeping individuals belong. I 

It is likewise an amusing and instructive field ■ 
of inquiry to observe how these nocturnal visions 
are affected by many adventitious causes, either 
general or particular — personal idiosyncrasies, as 
well as outward and more general causes, giving 
to the classes of dreams appropriate variations; 
for the temperament of individuals, from local or 
merely personal causes, as likewise the general 
face of a country, as whether mountainous, or 
champaign, sterile or luxuriant, interior or bound- 
ing upon the sea, sandy or prairie, warmed by an 
ardent or a feeble sun, are all but so many causes 
to vary the same classes of dreams. 

In all nations, and in all states of society these 
classes will be found. Were I writing a treatise m 
on dreaming, these might be carefully enumerated; ■ 
but in a mere Note, I may only advert to a i^w^ as 
for example, to that peculiar sensation, we all expe- 
rience in dreams, of falling from lofty heights — the 
skimming over extensive surfaces with the rapidity 
of a bird, attended with a notion in the dreamer that 



DREAMING. 279 

he alone is e^ndowed with this enviable faculty — 
the flight from some pursuing danger, which ends 
with the dreamer's being left somewhat in the rear, 
whilst his more fortunate companions are seen 
before him in comparative safety — the unexpected 
and awkward predicament of finding one-self in a 
state of nudity, or of some other great shame, 
which sorely mortifies us, and at the very time, 
too, when most solicitous to appear to advantage; 
and an hundred others, are dreams experienced by 
all, be he king or cobbler, sage or fool ! 

Another class of dreams, almost equally universal, 
is that in which the dreamer is invested with well 
known faculties, but in a very superior degree to 
that in which he is possessed of them during his 
wakefulness. We are sometimes endued with a 
lofty eloquence, rapid, chaste, and commanding — in 
others we become highly poetical; and, with an im- 
provisotarial faculty, wholly unknown to us when 
awake, we seem to revel in its exercise, and to 
delight others no less than ourselves, in all that is 
rich, and flowing, and copious in versification, and 
in all appropriate imagery ! How many admirable 
letters, also, are written, speeches delivered, poems 
recited, witty replies made, sage advice given— 
which, could they but be remembered and com- 
mitted to the faithful page, would raise the dreamer 
from obscurity to immortality! — a fool, then, awake 
is not necessarily a fool asleep! — and though 
dreams do certainly, in general, derive their cha- 
racter from the mental status of the dreamer, as it 
is manifested by him when awake, yet it is equally 



280 DREAMING. 

certain that the soul, when thus partially relieved 
by sleep from its thraldom, does sometimes become 
endued with very transcendant powers, and even 
with those in high perfection, which are, either 
wholly denied, or which are remarkably hebetated 
in the individual, during his waking existence ! 

The ancients, who, from superstitious impulses, 
were led to pay particular attention to this faculty, 
have endeavoured to account for the production of 
dreams, upon various principles, both physical and 
supernatural : but notwithstanding their religion 
induced them to investigations, which might have 
otherwise been neglected, they are very far from 
an unanimity of sentiment, and are perhaps a 
greater remove from the truth than the moderns. 

Such dreams as were held the result of divine, 
or at least of supernatural agency, were of three 
kinds — first, such wherein the gods^ or departed 
spirits, appeared to man, in their real and some- 
times assumed forms — as where Morpheus, the 
god of dreams, assumed the body of old Nestor^ 
and appeared to Agamemnon, strongly urging him 
to give battle to the Trojans — or where the beau- 
tiful goddess Persephone^ upbraided Pindar, the 
celebrated lyric poet, for neglect, in having sung 
the praises of all the other goddesses and preter- 
mitted her; the poet made her the most friendly 
promises of future notice, and after death, appeared 
in a dream to a matron relation of his, and recited 
a poem composed by him in honour of this roman- 
tic goddess ! 



DREAMING. 281 

The second class of dreams, was, that in which 
future events are figuratively or typographically 
revealed — such was Caesar's unnatural dream, 
which was evidently in allusion to his future 
greatness, when he should hold the empire of the 
earth, the common mother of all things animate or 
inanimate. 

Such, also, are most of the dreams recorded in 
the Sacred Writ. 

The third kind, was such wherein things which 
were to happen were fairly and perspicuously deli- 
neated. 

Nearly of this kind was that of Croesus, the 
Lydian king, who dreamed that his son, Atys, 
would be slain by an iron weapon — Atys was for 
a long time forbidden the use of arms, but having 
at length prevailed upon his father to permit him 
to hunt down a wild boar, which for a long time 
had been the terror of the neighbourhood, he was 
unfortunately slain by his guardian Adrastus. 

Various have been the opinions of the ancients 
as to the cause of dreams. According to Lucre- 
tius, they are occasioned by images, or simulacra^ 
emitted by all corporeal things: these floating in 
the air in vast and miscellaneous abundance, are 
presented to the soul in sleep, and sometimes 
during wakefulness — and thus give rise to dreams, 
and to-day visions. Some have asserted that 
all dreams have their genesis from the earth, 
either by its obstructing the passage of the solar 
light, and thereby occasioning night, which was 
esteemed a state of the atmosphere particularly 



282 DREAMING. 

favourable to the formation of dreams, or from the 
fumes exhaled from the stomach, which, during 
the digestive process, were thought to occasion an 
artificial atmosphere round the body of the sleeper, 
retarding the motion of the animal spirits, and so 
affecting the brain, that the accustomed operations 
of the mind are disturbed ; and wandering unre- 
strained by reason, or by the force of habit, into 
the regions of fancy, give birth to these strange 
representations called natural or ordinary dreams. 

It is obvious that those who were anxious for a 
true or prophetic dream, would sedulously avoid 
eating such diet as is not easy of digestion ; hence 
it became almost a science to ascertain the qualities 
of the various articles of diet; but fish, raw fruits 
of all kinds, beans, and wines, were never in- 
dulged in by such as were anxious for a true or 
prophetic dream ! 

Although the false or unprophetic dreams were 
generally ascribed to the physical operation of food 
on the brain, yet they were also imputed to the 
infernal deities or spirits, as is said by Virgil in 
his sixth ^neid — 

*Sed falsa ad Ccelum mittunt insomnia manes.' 

Dreams were also attributed to Luna, or Hecate, 
who, was the guardian of tlie night, hence she 
was always invoked at nocturnal incantations, and 
her influence was greatly vahied upon. The god- 
dess Brizo of Delos, was by others considered the 
furnisher of dreams ; so also hawks and vultures 
were esteemed souls encompassed in material 
forms, and that these souls, upon the dissolution 



DREAMING. 283 

of the birds, being divested of materiality, assumed 
various modifications, and appearing to man whilst 
asleep, revealed the true or prophetic dreams. 

But of all the opinions as to the probable cause 
of dreams, enumerated by ancient writers, none is 
so singular and visionary as that mentioned by the 
Mantuan poet in his sixth iEneid — the delusive or 
unprophetic dreams being considered by him to be 
conveyed by various messengers of Somnus, from 
a spreading elm, situated near the portal of hell, 
to whose pendant leaves the various dreams are 
attached, and from thence plucked as necessity 
requires ! 

*/7i medio ramos annosaque brachia pandit 
Ulmus opaca, ingens quam sedem somnia vulgo 
Vana tenere ferunt, foliisque subomnibus hcerent.' 

*Full in the midst of this infernal road 

An elm displays her dusky arms abroad. 

The god of sleep there hides his heavy head. 

And empty dreams on every leaf are spread.' — Dryden. 

An infinitude of dreams were considered to 
attend the person of Somnus. This drowsy god, 
as Ovid informs us, had three attendants, who, for 
their ingenuity and perseverance in the discharge 
of their various functions, have been particularly 
distinguished from the rest. These were Mor- 
pheus, Phantasia and Phobetor ; the office of the 
first was to assume the human form, and to imitate 
their actions, manners and gestures : this he exe- 
cuted with such an exquisite versatility of power, 
that he is frequently, by way of eminence, called 
the god of sleep, and hence often confounded with 



284 DREAMING. 

his great master Somnus. Phantasia had the deli- 
neation of the inanimate world for his employment, 
and often presented a luxuriant feast to the pic- 
turesque imagination ; rocks, fountains, cascades, 
verdant groves, and purling streams, he frequently 
so happily united, as to render the scene more 
exquisitely grand, than the happiest delineation of 
the pencil, or the finest combinations of nature and 
art. But at other times, as if entirely bereaved of 
his judgment, he would picture such an heteroge- 
neous group, as could not but force a smile on the 
face of the most stoic sleeper, so violating every 
rule of proportion, nature and beauty, as more 
than to incur the satirical remark of Horace, 

*Delphinum appingit sylvis in fluctibus aprum.' 

But this great versatility of genius rendered 
Phantasia an extreme favourite, particularly with 
the poets, who, no doubt, deduced many of their 
finest images from his delineations. 

Phobetor was of a very different cast. He em- 
ployed himself in assuming the likenesses of the 
animal but irrational part of the creation, taking 
frequently that of the serpent, to which he seemed 
much attached. His office also was the inspiration 
of terror — hence the incubus, or night mare, with 
most of our unpleasant dreams, may be placed to 
his account ! 

But the principal originator of dreams, and the 
master of these three preceding personages, was 
Somnus, who as Ovid mentions, had his habita- 
tion among the Cimmerii, a nation on the western 
coast of Italy. In this rude and savage country 



DREAMING. 285 

was his den or palace, so happily described by 
this beautiful poet. Around him lay myriads of 
dreams, of every description, prophetic, delusive, 
pleasant, terrible, clear, confused, long, short, and 
in fact dreams of all sorts and sizes, which at 
pleasure were carried forth either by himself or 
his messengers ! 

In this palace of Somnus were two grand portals 
or avenues, through which all dreams were consi- 
dered to pass. 

Delusive dreams were imagined to pass through 
an ivory gate, and the 'somnia vera,' or prophetic, 
through one composed of transparent and well 
polished horn. 

*Two gates the silent house of sleep adorn, 
Of polish 'd ivory this — that of transparent horn. 
True visions through transparent horn arise. 
Thro' polishM ivory pass delusive lies.' — Dry den's Virg, 

Great attention was paid to the characteristics or 
distinguishing marks of the true or divine dreams, 
and among other things greatly relied on, was the 
time or period of the night in which the dream 
happened. The most generally received opinion 
was, that those dreams which came about the 
dawn of day are the most distinct, and are entitled 
to the greatest degree of credence. Of this opinion 
was Horace. 

*Post mediam noctem visus, quam s&mnia vera,' 

So also Ovid, 

•Namque sub Aurora jam dormitante lucerna 
Tempore quo cerni somnia vera solent.' 

Likewise Homer, who mentioning the propitious 
dream of Penelope concerning Telemachus, then 
25 



286 DREAMING. 

in search of his father Ulysses, particularly relied 
on it, since it had appeared to her at the early dawn 
of Aurora. 

This opinion was founded on the principle or 
theory already mentioned, that delusive dreams 
owe their genesis to the physical operation of food 
in the stomach, during the digestive process, which 
sending forth a cloud of fumes that surround the 
body, give a hebetude to the intellectual powers, 
and occasion those disturbing dreams which we 
frequently have in the early part of the night. 

But in the morning, when the mind is free from 
any unnatural influence, when balmy sleep reno- 
vates the body and infuses new life and vigour into 
the system, this period naturally suggested itself as 
the time in which the divine or true dreams might 
be expected to make their appearance. 

The gods of the 'somnia vera,' (as we learn) 
were not lavish in their distribution of them :— 
they required courting, and would neither deign to 
penetrate the murky atmosphere of animal exhala- 
tion, nor to make their appearance to such as were 
clothed in an improper dress or colour ! 

Hence the most usual night dress was white, 
which was considered to have a considerable in- 
fluence in giving both perspicuity and veracity to 
the dream ! 

It would require volumes to recount the many 
strange and superstitious notions of the ancient 
world with regard to this faculty ; but the whole 
of them are the offspring of ignorance, superstition 
and credulity. 



DREAMING. 287 

The opinion of many of the moderns, though 
they emanate a beam of truth through this dasda- 
lian intricacy, are nevertheless frequently marked 
by extreme folly. 

Mr. Baxter's theory, which is one of the earliest 
among the modern, is liable to the same objection, 
of explaining 4gnotum per ignotius,' as is sug- 
gested upon a review of the ancient opinions. He 
conceives them to be produced by immaterial 
beings, whose sole employment is the formation 
of these delusions; — the mode in which this is 
accomplished I will not stop to detail, since this 
hypothesis is so entirely conjecture, and so unsup- 
ported by evidence or analogy, that it merits no 
confutation. 

Walfius, and others, have held, that in all cases 
our organs of sensation participate in the imagi- 
nary transactions which employ the mind during 
sleep ; and that these mental illusions are always 
in consequence of a previous excitement of the 
organs of sensation. 

But the principle of this theory, if not totally 
unfounded, is far from being generally true, since, 
whilst asleep, we are generally wholly insensible 
to external impressions, unless they are pretty 
violent— beside this, where is the necessity of 
supposing such excitement of the physical organs 
to uniformly accompany our dreams, since we 
know that both the imagination and the fancy 
form a great variety of scenes, and wander far 
from surrounding objects and impressions, without 
there being the smallest excitement of the organs 



288 DREAMING. 

of sensation, to create such varied delineations? 
And yet there have been anomalous instances of 
dreams being actually produced by artificial means, 
that is by impressions purposely made upon the 
sleeper's organs of sensation ; such was the case 
recorded by Dr. -Gregory of one who, in conse- 
quence of the doctor's application to his feet of 
bottles with heated water, dreamed he was walk- 
ing on the hot lava of Mount Etna! Another 
instance is mentioned of a blister applied to the 
head having occasioned the patient to dream that 
he had been scalped by Indians ! — and Dr. Beattie 
states the case of one who could be made to dream 
almost ad libitum, by gently whispering to him ! 

Other physiologists, have attributed dreaming! j 
to the irregular motion of the nervous fluid, or to 
a deficient supply of that fluid to the brain. The 
brain being the seat of judgment, and of mental 
sensation, if not duly supplied with this pabulumJ 
will necessarily produce, as they say, that uncon-l 
nected and disorderly scene, which we frequently^ 
have whilst asleep: so that the rationality of our 
dreams is considered to be greatly influenced by* I 
the quantum of nervous fluid supplied to the brain. 
There is certainly a plausibility in this theory, yet 
,t is by no means commensurate to the various phe- 
nomena of dreaming — and, as soon as the nature 
of this fluid, if there be such an one, is more fully 
ascertained, it may possibly assist us in the inves- 
tigation of this intricate subject. 

That the past occurrences of the day should 
often be the prominent feature of our dreams, is 



DREAMING. 289 

rational ; and that frequently the curious dehnea- 
tions of the Imagination, using memory during 
sleep, may be considered as the offspring of this 
combining faculty, unattended by the judgment, 
is what can readily be admitted ; but this by no 
means solves the many difficulties which present 
themselves. Innumerable queries may be put, for 
explanation, by those who have made this a sub- 
ject of consideration, which baffle all reasoning, 
and cannot but force the profoundest metaphysi- 
cians to acknowledge their ignorance. 

If it be true, as is asserted, that some never 
dream, others not till an advanced period of their 
lives — that some never fail to dream, and others 
dream but seldom, these are phenomena, which 
at present seem to be wholly inexplicable. 

We often fancy ourselves reading, and so far 
enter into the nature and spirit of the author, as 
to be able distinctly to remember, and even to 
recite, the language and ideas of the composition! 

That we dream of nothing but what has re- 
cently (or even a long time past) occurred, or made 
its impression, is denied by constant experience; 
so neither is judgment always asleep; for many 
dreams preserve a perfect unity and connected- 
ness throughout, and are frequently as well told, 
and rational tales, as could have been composed 
by the author, during the brightest moments of 
his wakefulness. 

The great variety of scenes, pictured to us, 
during sleep, and which succeed each other with 
the rapidity of lightning, though there be no trace- 
25* 



290 DREAMING. 

able relation, is, as I have before remarked, a 
phenomenon, highly curious. I have before now 
found myself in a theatre, listening with all ima- 
ginable interest, to the enaction of a tragedy, and 
the next moment, have been in a carriage in the 
streets of London, perfectly divested of the feel- 
ings excited by the performance of the actors !— * 
such a rapid flight from one thing to another, so 
unlike it, cannot be accounted for upon any prin- 
ciple of association of ideas — but this is a minor 
difiiculty, in comparison of others — one of greater 
magnitude presents itself, which is the astonishing 
power of the imagination, in delineating scenes in 
all their natural colours, upon a scale truly sub- 
lime, and frequently very far surpassing any reality, 
when the same faculty (the possessor being awake) 
refuses to furnish the plainest image, or a scene 
any way different from those in real life : for many 
persons, quite of a Boeotian imagination, have 
dreams of which even a Milton might have been 
proud. Some men are wits in their sleep, who, 
during wakefulness, are insufferably dull — others 
have the acumen of genius, who, when awake, 
are men of very ordinary talents. A friend of 
mine, who, from experience, justifies the correct- 
ness of these remarks, declared to me, that the 
finest imagery to be found in his compositions 
were given to him in his dreams, and that for 
the two last years, he has been accustomed to 
write down every fine idea, or sublime image, 
which his imagination vouchsafed during sleep! 
Mr. Coleridge's Kubla Khan originated in this 



DREAMING. 291 

way. He fell asleep after reading of the Khan's 
splendid palace, and of his stately garden ten miles 
in circumference ! and during a sleep of a few 
hours he composed several hundred lines ; which, 
on waking, he instantly committed to paper ; and 
its fragmentary form is owing to the dream having 
faded away before he could record it ! Mathema- 
ticians, also, have been known to solve difficult 
problems in their sleep, which they had hopelessly 
abandoned when awake; and to this faculty musi- 
cians are likewise sometimes indebted for their 
finest passages. 

But one of the most remarkable of the pheno- 
mena of dreaming is the revival of forgotten lan- 
guages ; for dreamers have been known to con- 
verse with some familiarity in a language, with 
which they have scarce any recollection, or avail- 
able knowledge when awake ! 

Many physicians have considered dreams to take 
place only when the sleep is disturbed ; and Haller 
has even gone so far as to consider them sympto- 
matic of disease, disturbing the repose of the sen- 
sorium, and thereby debilitating both mind and 
body. And our own enlightened countryman, the 
late Dr. Rush, proceeds a step further, and regards 
a dream as a transient paroxysm of delirium, and 
delirium as a permanent dream ! But were I to 
judge from my own experience, I should unhesita- 
tingly deny all of these positions : for, a continued 
and dull sleep, unaccompanied by these pleasing 
vagaries of the imagination, have been found so far 
from renovating, that I have experienced a debility 



292 DREAMING. 

and languor, similar to that resulting from morbid 
wakefulness. Disagreeable dreams certainly do 
accompany bodily disorders, and during a febrile 
diathesis, our dreams are also more frequent, and 
almost universally of a sombre cast ; but the con- 
verse of this is by no means true — that whenever 
we have numerous or unpleasant dreams, the body 
is in a disordered state. Be this, however, as it 
may, pleasant or indifferent dreams are positively 
healthy, are perfectly compatible with an invigo- 
rating and refreshing sleep, and indeed, are fre- 
quently found to be, as it were, a tonic to the 
mind, occasioning one to rise in the morning in 
better health and spirits, than might have been the 
case, had the usual succession of these delightful 
illusions been denied to him. 

The general cast, or nature of dreams, is, no 
doubt, very considerably influenced by a diffe- 
rence of temperament. A man of a sanguine tem- 
perament, will, by no means, have the same class or 
description of dreams, as the phlegmatic — this obser- 
vation is perhaps equally applicable to the moral as 
to the physical temperament of man. Plutarch says, 
that a fair argument may be drawn from a man's 
dream, as to his temper, and general disposition; 
and another ancient writer is of opinion, that a 
wise and virtuous man will be alike himself, even 
in his sleep. Of the general correctness of this 
observation there can be but little doubt. 

Our dreams frequently afford us a good moral 
lesson. By them Ave may learn to eschew many 
indiscretions, and to avoid the encroachments of 



DREAMING. 293 

evil habits. — The feelings excited in onr dreams 
by the follies and crimes we have committed, often 
leave deep impressions, and serve to guard us 
against the further commission of actions, which, 
in our sleep, gave us so much uneasiness. 

Shall I be pardoned, if in illustration of 

their moral influences, I break the continuity of 
my discussion by an example, somewhat in the 
fashion of a little tale ? If so, kind reader ! come 
on with me ; but, if not, pass on to what I have 
further to say concerning the strange things that 
appertain to my subject. 

A DREAM. 

Marcellus and Parthenia were the pride of 
the village in which they lived ; he possessing in 
an eminent degree every amiable virtue of the 
heart, that conciliated affection, and of the mind, 
that gives weight in society — and she, as lovely in 
form and complexion as the morning dewy rose, 
and in spirit, as gay and angelic as even poet's 
fancy could portray. Possessed of an ample patri- 
mony, Marcellus at an early age, seemed to have 
consummated all earthly bliss, in receiving the 
affections and hand, of this loveliest and best of 
women. A few years glided on, more in ecstasy 
than in sober happiness — every succeeding morn 
affording some new source of bliss, derived from 
perfect health, from youth, fortune, talents, and from 
the affection of every poor villager around them ; 
and the pure respect of the more intellectual, who 
visited their homestead. 



294 DREAMING. 

Two beautiful boys, the offspring of their ten- 
der love, gave to Parthenia and her doting hus- 
band, the promise of long continued joys in them, 
after life's more buoyant current should grow 
sluggish, and when heaven's reversion in close 
and sweet prospect, should mitigate the pain of 
separation ; and to this was added a conscious- 
ness, that their elegant and exemplary life were 
gradually refining the taste, and the morals of r 
the more humble and less intellectual people, with f 
whom they so kindly communed. Such was 
the state of these congenial and virtuous souls, 
united by the holiest of ties, and encompassed 
with the smiles and benisons of God and of man. 

But, in a fatal hour, Marcellus glided into the 
company of a class of persons known as gentle- 
men gamesters, who were said to play merely jt?owr 
passer le tew/ps, and for small sums, only suffi- 
cient to add a little interest to the game — and so it 
really was at first, when Marcellus appeared among* 
them. But the demon of avarice was not late in;' 
appearing, and amusement was finally changed 
into an engrossing, and immolating employment ! 
Under the mask of friendship, which still con- 
tinued, they were undermining each other's hap- 
piness, destroying domestic felicity, and entailing 
wretchedness and penury on those whom they 
tenderly loved — on wives, children, and friends ! 
It was Marcellus' nature, and his greatest misfor- 
tune, to suspect no one — full of virtuous impulses, 
he could not see the faults of others: winning or 
losing gave him, at first, neither pleasure nor pain ; 



DREAMING. 295 

Others around him were falling into the abyss more 
rapidly, but still not more surely than he was : 
some of them were deeply unprincipled, they flat- 
tered him with unwearied attentions, often de- 
ceived him by apparent generosity; the habit was 
becoming in Marcellus insensibly confirmed — and 
he began to tolerate many things which, in the 
commencement, would have filled his soul with 
anguish. 

A liberal hospitality was extended by all these 
friends towards the gentle Marcellus, which, as 
he thought, must necessarily be reciprocated. His 
house was thrown open to them — it became a 
scene of elegant festivity, then of less refined dis- 
sipation, and eventually, an arena of disgusting 
and terrific gambling — and Marcellus in the course 
of the year, was found as avowed a gambler as any 
of his companions ! 

His sensible and devoted wife mourned not in 
silence over his obvious change ; she often won 
him for a time, by her tender appeals ; she poured 
balm into his wounded soul ; she sustained him 
in the dignity of his character, as husband, father, 
and citizen; she argued, but railed not; and she 
often flattered herself the victory had been achieved. 
But these were delusive calms in an ocean now 
given to storms — ruin was glaringly and frightfully 
pendant over them — and even the servants and 
children saw the impending desolation, and united 
with Parthenia in their griefs. The devoted wife 
and mother fervently implored heaven, fiiends, 
children, and husband to avert the mischief— and, 



296 



DREAMING. 



with every means which love, reason, shame, grief, 
and interest could invoke, she still resolved to win 
him from his fatal malady. But all were tried in 
vain ! His property was nearly gone, his health 
much impaired, his heart in a degree indurated — 
and the constitution and inner soul of the pure 
and lovely Parthenia were so wasted, that death 
would have been a welcome messenger. But 
Providence, who is ever a God of means, ordained 
it otherwise. 

Marcellus, after his wonted dissipation, re- 
turned as usual to his wife in the dead of night, 
threw himself upon his bed; and exhausted with 
the scenes he had just passed through, soon 
fell asleep. The pangs of an accusing con- 
science haunted him in his dreams, with a 
vividness and a stern reality, to which he had 
been for months wholly a stranger in his waking 
hours; and, in his dreamy wanderings, his 
wretched mind finally brought him to the cells 
of man deprived of reason. Propitious visions ! 
Fancy pictured to him, at first, the many mingled 
horrors that grew from sudden poverty — he distinct- 
ly saw hunger^ under the form of a perishing man, 
contending, stealthily, with a famished dog, as to 
who should gain a loathsome bone ! — thirst he saw, 
with parched lips, sucking the last remnants from 
a filthy cup she feebly held ! — children^ with hag- 
gard eyes, were dying in their impoverished mo- 
thers' arms ; and, at a distance, he distinctly beheld 
sumptuous halls, full of imperial magnificence, 
and with numerous tables groaning with luxu- 



i 



DREAMING. 297 

rious viands, and garnished with every delicious 
delicacy, and beautiful device, that taste could 
yield ! This scene suddenly changed, and he 
found himself in the midst of maniacs ! Com- 
miserating the unhappy situation of these wretch- 
ed beings, all of whom were wandering at liberty 
in the corridors of the extensive building, he 
thought their loss of reason, and their present 
miseries, proceeded mainly from poverty, which 
had been suddenly brought upon them ; and then 
his fitful mind instantly transferred him and the 
maniacs from these corridors, into the presence of 
the sumptuous halls!— and he saw them struggling, 
from hunger, to gain admission into these gorgeous 
apartments — the feast was all before them, but the 
lofty glass doors, through which they viewed it, 
were barred against them ; and they, with him- 
self, were soon excluded even from this delight- 
ful vision, and were cast out into the court, there 
to mingle with the famished dogs, and with the 
men who contended for the miserable bones, and 
with those who were maddened with thirst, and 
were licking the exhausted cups of their last drops! 
The scene once more changed ; and from the 
open corridors, Marcellus passed from cell to cell, 
the doors of which yielded for his entrance. Pan- 
demonium, with its unmitigated horrors, seemed 
there assembled — many in those cells were furious, 
and bound with chains — others laughed unnatu- 
rally and incessantly — some wept without intermis- 
sion — some lacerated their bodies, others mourned 
in silence. At length, in a more loathsome cell 
26 



298 DREAMING. 

than any, a lovely female, apparently the victim 
of sullen and quiet despair^ arrested his attention J 
At the first sight of Marcellus, she hastily turned 
away, and then reclined her sickened limbs upon 
a miserable bed of straw. Curiosity being keenly 
awakened, MarceUus entered the cell ; the female, 
in tattered garments, and with one side of her face 
blooming in youthful health and freshness, whilst 
the other was haggard, sallow, and emaciated, gave 
him a hurried glance, then suddenly hid her head 
in the folds of her mantle, and perseveringly refused 
reply to any of his anxious inquiries ! 

The singularity of a face that on the one side 
beamed with happiness and beauty, and on the 
other bore so many ugly lineaments of extreme 
misery, stimulated his curiosity to the highest pitch. 
Turning round to one of the keepers, and with a 
heart throbbing with sensibility, he inquired into 
the cause of her deplorable condition, and espe- 
cially as to the phenomenon which so strangely 
blended the manifestations of health and joy, with 
those of disease and of grief! 

*The villany of a husband,' replied the keeper, 
4ost to every sentiment of virtue and of love, re- 
duced himself and family from affluence to penury, 
from bliss to misery — beggared his children, and 
drove to desperation and to madness this virtuous 
and most lovely of women. In her angelic face, 
on its right side, you may see her as she was at 
nineteen; and on the other side, what she has 
come to at twenty-seven, through the gambling 
dissipations of her now cruel, but once virtuous 



DREAMING. 299 

husband,' At this instant, the unfortunate female 
raised her head, and stood unveiled before them. 
Great God ! what were the feelings, what the 
agonies of Marcellus, when, in this wretched ma- 
niac, he recognized his adored, his much injured 
Parthenia ! All description fails — his feelings were 
burning lava — and he instantly awoke ! In the 
ecstasy of joy, and of renovated love, he embraced 
his wife, overwhelmed with happiness to find it all 
a dream ! 

Marcellus communicated to Parthenia the har- 
rowing scenes he had just witnessed in his dream 
— and solemnly vowed to abjure for ever his late 
practices, and wholly to abandon his false friends. 
This he has done. The brightest rays of happi- 
ness again play around them — Parthenia's health 
is perfectly restored, and the shattered remnants of 
their once ample fortune, give an annual increase, 
and furnish them with that elegant but moderate 
competency, which secures, to the virtuous, un- 
mixed happiness. 



For those who love the facts of philosophy, bet- 
ter than the tales of a rather dull fancy, proceed we 
now to the residue of what we have to offer con- 
cerning the matter in hand. Suffer me here to 
premise, however, that I do verily opine, an author, 
of all others, is the most apt to be an egregious 
ignoramus as to what may, or may not, please his 
readers. It is nearly, if not quite impossible, for 
any reader whose likings run into some particular 



300 DREAMING. 

channels, to imagine that when he himself turns 
author, his readers will take no interest in the 
objects of his long cherished tastes : and yet so it 
may well be. I do remember one of the black- 
letter volumes, of the days when alchemy, and 
judicial astrology flourished, speaks thuswise of 
dreaming — the author nothing doubting but that 
his readers would wholly agree with him. 'It's no 
wonder,' saith he, 'if a discourse on such sublime 
subjects as the entertainment of our souls during 
the body's nocturnal repose, and when they have 
shaken off, for a time, the fetters of the senses, 
and are upon the wing in the suburbs of eternity, 
it is no wonder, I say, if a discourse on the secret 
intercourse of spirits with humanity, and on the 
wonderful communications of Deity to his ser- 
vants, in dreams and in visions, should be both i 

acceptable, and in some kind useful.' May I 5 

be permitted, courteous reader ! so to think of mine ? 
My misgivings are great, in these our days of 
stimulating literary condiments, at a time, too, 
when an author is no^ author at all, unless he be 
the parent of many volumes of most exciting tales, 
and permitting moreover, two-thirds of them to be 
sacrificed to the enrichment of a hungry, selfish, 
unintellectual, monopolizing, set of publishers and 
booksellers, before the poor inditer of these fictions 
is permitted to pocket a single carlino of emolu- 
ment! — I say my misgivings are, indeed, great, 
as to whether any of these notes will please 
either readers, or book-venders — and, in particular, 
whether the subject of dreams, in our degenerate 



DREAMING. 301 

day, will have sufficient interest to arrest their 
now morbid, and mawkish attention — for, doubt- 
less, Miss Papilla and her intellectual companion, 
Whiskeraiidos^ will contemn all of these Notes as 
quite too philosophical ! 

But, I have told thee in my preface, that I have 
embarked on this troublous sea of authorship, and 
that I mean to steer my frail bark, by my own 
small rudder, and by my own careful observations 
upon the literary atmosphere, regardless of the 
calms, and of the storms, from whatever source 
they come, during my perilous voyage — hoping, 
withal, for more favourable breezes hereafter, and 
for more hospitable ports, than are to be looked 
for, either in these our days, or in these our mer- 
cantile regions. 

This digression ended, I find that the musty 
old author, just quoted by me, whose name I can- 
not give, as he disdained all fame, present or post- 
humous, and therefore revealed it not, has seen 
fit to arrange dreams into three cardinal divisions, 
viz : SiDERiAL, Spiritual, and Complexional. 

To the first class, or those dreams which he attri- 
butes to siderial influences, he gives seven orders, 
as the dreamers are supposed to be more or less 
affected by the then known seven planets, includ- 
ing the sun and moon, and excluding our earth. 
Mercurial dreams are confused, fanciful, and ram- 
bling — Lunar are fickle, lying and foolish — those 
of Venus are instinct with love, and the amiable 
affections — Martial dreams are fierce and war- 
26* 



302 ' DREAMING. 

like — Jovial are mild, grave, and* thoughtful — 
Saturnine are sad, dull, and frightful ; and lastly, 
Solar dreams are gorgeous, varied, replete with 
worldly honours, and all the fruits of riches! 

But these siderial dreams, as well as the science 
of astrology, (to which they are so closely allied) 
are now consigned by the enlightenment of our 
age, to merited contempt and oblivion. 

As to the second class, or spiritual dreams, they 
are referred by this author to the four sources of 
Deity — of good angels — evil angels — and of the 
prince of darkness: — in respect to all of which,' 
it may be remarked that most good men, of all 
ages, have believed that Deity has sometimes 
vouchsafed thus to commune with the soul of 
man — and, as to the doctrine of diabolical influ- 
ences on man, whether when asleep or awake, he, 
as I presume, is a bold man who would utterly 
repudiate them. 

And lastly, as to the class of complexional 
dreams, they are referred to the theory of the five 
temperaments of man, in respect to the general 
truth of which theory, there can be little doubt, 
nor can it be questioned but that dreams often 
originate in, and are often greatly varied by these 
temperaments. 

The ancients had a strange fancy in regard to 
the apparitions that may appear to us, either in 
dreams, or in day visions. They supposed that 
all ghosts or apparitions are material, but com- 
posed of extremely attenuated elements — that the 
soul of man, during sleep, or wakefulness, can 



I 



BREAMING* 303 

never perceive a pure spirit; and hence that 
angels, the devils, his imps, and finally, all imma- 
terial beings, are obliged to clothe themselves in 
these refined bodies, that they may become visible 
to man, even in his dreams. They further sup- 
posed that all human beings have two bodies ; the 
one the outward, gross, and visible tenement; the 
other the elemental, thin, and demi-spiritual body, 
proceeding from what, in after times, was called the 
radical moisticre ; and that all of the beings seen 
in our dreams, are these refined bodies, either of 
departed beings, or of such from among the spiri- 
tual world, as are commissioned to assume these 
forms. It was also supposed by them, that when 
in our dreams and day visions, we see these spec- 
tres, it is never with our gross and visible eyes, but 
that our communion with them is always through 
the medium of the thin, and elementary body — 
and finally, that as long as the radical moisture 
remains existent after death, so long may the appa- 
ritions or ghosts of that body exist, and be visible 
in this world — and that, as this moisture gradually 
diminishes, by time or otherwise, so will the ghost 
become weaker, and weaker, until it vanishes 
wholly, by becoming a pure spirit ! 

On the basis of these notions was it, that the 
ancients so often consumed their dead ^ bodies to 
ashes, that they might at once, so effectually de- 
stroy the radical moisture, as to give peace to souls, 
and prevent their assuming the thin covering, and 
thus molest the living by their apparitions ! But 
the Egyptians, of course, saw, and now see more 



304 DREAMING. 

ghosts than other people, since they preserved their 
defunct bodies, with such special care: and the 
spectres of the twenty milUons of mummies, sup- 
posed to be still existent in the cemeteries of 
Thebes, and of other cities in that ancient land, 
will enable our travellers to encounter a ghost, or a 
phalanx of them, ad libitum ! 

The superstitious practice, also, which is some- 
times used, of compelling one charged with mur- 
der, to touch the wounds of the deceased, origi- 
nates in this theory — for, in such case, the notion 
was that certain effluvia hover around the body for 
a time; and that by uniting together, they com- 
pose those spectra that wander among the ceno- 
taphs, the dormitories of the dead, and the like 
places ! These, though generally invisible from 
their extreme tenuity, are supposed to become visi- 
ble to the murderer, the instant he touches the 
wounds — because, then, the effluvia with an ex- 
treme energy, issue from the sally-ports of a lin- 
gering, but wholly unseen life, unite into form, and 
fly, at once, into the murderer's face ! 

In like manner, as 'tis said, dogs, and other ani- 
mals, possess the faculty denied to man, of recog- 
nizing by these spectra, the murderer of a master, 
or of a friend. To the same idea, likewise, we 
may refer the fact, that persons of gross and wick- 
ed appetites are peculiarly subject to demoniacal 
possession; by which iij to be understood, not 
merely that they have^ many bad thoughts, and 
evil propensities, but that the Evil One, or his 
messengers, take actual possession of them. And 



DREAMING. 305 

this is supposed to arise from their demi-spiritual 
bodies becoming themselves grosser and grosser, 
through their own wickedness — opening thereby 
to the foul-fiend an entrance, by which he is 
enabled to exercise a more direct and intense com- 
munion with the soul — and hence spring the many 
horrid sights, the agonizing dreams, the swarms of 
vain and torturing thoughts, of shocking desires, 
of blasphemous imaginations, and the apparently 
resistless crowd of enmities against God, in spite of 
the severe conflicts, which the same souls are con- 
scious of, as being waged against these demons, 
by spirits of an opposite nature ! If the Catade- 
mons, or lovers of evil angels, be denominated 
'Legion,' because of their vast number, so, like- 
wise, are there myriads of protecting or good ones ; 
and hence, in our dreams, and also in our waking 
hours, all life seems but a perpetual warfare be- 
tween the Spirits of Evil, and the Spirits of Good — 
between Ebony and Topaz ! 

It was a matter of no small consequence, in 
times of yore, to know the insignia of their ghost- 
ships; and especially, to be able to distinguish 
with certainty, the guardian spirit from the evil 
one. And though the outward and visible signs of 
these gossamer beings, were often no very sure cri- 
terions, yet all seemed to agree on two, as infalli- 
ble, — to wit, that a good angel never assumed the 
shape of a woman — and that a bearded angel was 
ever to be accounted as an evil one ! Woman is 
the Hveaker vessel;' she, moreover, 'brought death 
into the world, and all our woe;' and yet, as she 



306 DREAMING. 

has behaved herself since that time tolerably well, 
and certainly far better than man hath done, it 
would seem a strange slur upon her now, to sup- 
pose she can never assume the office and garb of a 
good angel ! and, as for the reproach cast thereby 
upon beards, they have been very generally held in 
high veneration, though it must be admitted that 
the face without one, appears milder, and that 
some modern ones have very diabolical aspects! 
The Greeks and Romans, in their most polished 
times, were generally bearded; and when one of 
the popes, in after times, shaved his off, the Greek 
church regarded it as a great apostacy ! We also 
find the prophets and apostles uniformly bearded 
by the painters; and though Aulus Gellius states 
that criminals were never permitted to appear with- 
out beards, the weight of authority is certainly on 
the side of their being very generally received as 
an honourable appendage. I am, therefore, at a 
loss for a valid reason as to this belief that a good 
angel was never found in woman's lovely form — or 
in that of a man with a graceful, flowing beard— 
mais en voilh plus qv?il rCen faut. These, how- 
ever, are deep subjects, in which, though there 
have been many wild imaginations, still, he is no 
keen observer of the human heart and mind, who 
would cast them wholly off as worthless dross. 

I have several times alluded to the extreme rapi- 
dity of thought in dreams, the infinite variety and 
combinations of their events, and how, in them, 
the transactions of a life, are compressed into the 
brief minutes of a short sleep ! Mr. Addison illus- 



DREAMING. 307 

trates this idea in so beautiful a manner, that I do 
not hesitate to insert it, as follows : — 'In the Koran, 
it is said that the angel Gabriel took Mahomet out 
of his bed one morning, to give him a sight of all 
things in the seven heavens, in paradise and in 
hell, which the prophet took a distant view of; 
and, after having held ninety thousand conferences 
with God, was brought back again to his bed. AH 
this was transacted in so small a space of time, 
that Mahomet, on his return, found his bed still 
warm, and took up an earthen pitcher which was 
thrown down at the very instant that the angel 
Gabriel carried him away, before the water was all 
spilt ! 

'A sultan of Egypt, who was an infidel, used to 
laugh at this circumstance in Mahomet's life, as 
what was altogether impossible and absurd ; but, 
conversing one day with a great doctor in the law, 
who had the gift of working miracles, the doctor 
told him he would quickly convince him of the 
truth of this passage in the Koran, if he would 
consent to do what he would desire of him. Upon 
this, the sultan was directed to place himself by a 
huge tub of water, which he did accordingly ; and 
as he stood by the tub amidst a circle of his great 
men, the holy man bid him plunge his head into 
the water, and draw it up again. The king accor- 
dingly thrust his head into the water, and at the 
same time found himself at the foot of a moun- 
tain on the sea shore 1 The king set himself to 
think on proper methods for getting a livelihood in 
this strange country. Accordingly, he applied 



308 DREAMING. 

himself to some people whom he saw at work in a 
neighbouring wood. Those people conducted him 
to a town that stood at a little distance from the 
wood, where, after some adventures, he married a 
woman of great beauty and fortune. He lived with 
this woman so long, that he had by her seven sons, 
and seven daughters. He was afterwards reduced 
to great want, and forced to think of plying in the 
streets as a porter for his livelihood. One day, as 
he was walking alone by the sea side, being seized 
with many melancholy reflections upon his former 
and his present state of life, which had raised a fit 
of devotion in him, he threw off his clothes, with 
a design to wash himself, according to the custom 
of the Mahometans, before he said his prayers. 

^After his first plunge into the sea, he no sooner 
raised his head above the water, but he found him- 
self standing beside the tub, with the great men 
of his court about him, and the holy man at his 
side! He immediately upbraided his teacher for 
having sent him on such a course of adventures, 
and betrayed him into so long a state of misery 
and servitude, but was wonderfully surprised when 
he heard that the state he talked of was only a 
dream; that he had not stirred from the place 
where he then stood ; that he had only dipped his 
head into the water, and immediately taken it out 
again ! The Mahometan doctor took this occasion 
of instructing the sultan, that nothing was impos- 
sible with God; that he, with whom a thousand 
years are but as one day, can, if he pleases, make 



DREAMING. 309 

a single day, nay, a single moment appear to any 
of his creatures as a thousand years.' 

From the foregoing tale we may learn that an 
whole age, nay, even that of our world, may be as 
a single moment with all spiritual existences ; or 
that the eternity which comes after death, may be 
without any true note of time, myriads of years 
being but as a moment, and moments, on the con- 
trary, filled with the events of ages. 

Another remarkable feature in dreams, and one 
nearly identical with the preceding, is, that they 
generally relate to things as present ; they deal 
little with the past ^ or with the future ! all is a per- 
petual now ! — for, if we are in the presence of Noah 
and the prophets, or of Caesar and Bonaparte, they 
are all our cotemporaries, and we their associates, 
with no consciousness of the past, and of course, 
with no surprise at the strange anachronisms ! 
This fact is full of intimations of the souPs pro- 
bable state when wholly severed from the body; it 
harmonizes with all the marvels recorded of dream- 
ing, and shows that sleep is the connecting link 
between life and death ! If the soul be, indeed, a 
ray from the source of eternal power, it seems, 
during sleep, to be an emanation, that delights in 
freedom, and revels in its partial exemption from 
the toils of place and of time. In this state it am- 
bles, as it were, on the very confines of eternity, or 
swims in the vast abyss, reminded of its mortal 
alliance, (Hke the falcon to its master,) only by the 
slender leash that binds it. 
27 



310 DREAMING. 

This enlargement of the privilege of the soul 
during sleep, though small compared with that 
which follows death, is yet sufficient to place be- 
fore it very many of its past actions, as things 
essentially present ; and hence it is that minds, 
insensible to remorse when awake, are sometimes 
suddenly stimulated to deep repentance, by the 
lively presentation during sleep of the events of 
their life — events that had been nearly erased from 
their memory ! But how greatly more astounded 
must the soul be, after the total dissolution of its 
connection with time, to find itself at once in the 
presence of all the sinful actions and thoughts of 
its worldly existence, all of them naked and bare, 
and the whole concentrated in a clearly visible, 
fearful, and perpetual noio ; and this, too, with no 
one oblivious appliance, present, or hoped for, that 
can mitigate, in the least, the loathsome sight ! — 
for, as to all men, Hheir loorks do folloio them^ 
none, no not one of them, is missing, but all are 
actually and eternally before them ! 

I know that flimsy thinkers, have ever been dis- 
posed to treat with ridicule, the least idea that sleep 
and dreams, (both so natural) can ever shadow 
forth the things of an after life. Philosophers of 
old have rightly said that superstition is odious to 
the gods; and equally so is unmeaning incredulity. 
But that sensible belief, which takes a middle 
course, and which, by a wise moral alchymy^ 
extracts from the numerous facts of dreaming, 
some wholesome lessons, is an homage which a 
well ordered mind should willingly pay to Him 



i 



DREAMING. 311 

who causeth the soul to think^ and the heart to 
feel^ no less during our nocturnal, than our daily- 
existence ; and such a sensible belief will find that 
philosophy and religion are equally consentaneous 
to the idea that sleep and dreams are sometimes 
designed to teach man, more intimately, the nature 
of his soul ; and that at all times, they have been 
occasionally used by Deity as the vehicle of useful 
presages, appertaining either to this, or to the other 
world. 

If then, in dreams, we perceive that the soul is 
very apt to deal with all things as if present^ and to 
take no note of tim£ ; and if we likewise find that 
in nearly all prophecy^ the matters are dealt with as 
if actually present^ the inference is a rational one 
that the soul of the dreamer, as well as of the pro- 
phet, has been, for the time, partially absolved from 
corporeal ties, and that it wanders more at large 
into that state of existence where matter, place, 
and time are unknown. Moses, no doubt, saw as 
a visible now^ the past, present, and future ! He 
saw the transactions of the creation — of the fall of 
man — of the flood, as things present to him ! So 
Christ is said to be a Lamb ^slaM from the foun- 
dation of the world, and yet the actual event occur- 
red more than four thousand years after — it being 
seen by the prophet, eight hundred years before it 
took place in time ! When Isaiah says 'Babylon 
is fallefij^ he contemplates it as 3. present event, 
and when the same prophet speaks of Cyrus, one 
hundred and forty years before the temple was 
destroyed, and fully two hundred years before his 



312 DREAMING. 

birth, he deals with this founder of the Persian 
monarchy as if then in being, and with the events 
to be accomplished by him, as if then existent ! 
The Scriptures are full of such expressions — and 
how could it be otherwise ? for a prophet, in the 
act of his holy vocation, must necessarily be inde- 
pendent of, and, so to speak, out of time; and must 
see as a spirit, which deals not with time. Hence 
arises the general idea that the dreams of the aged 
are more veracious — and, in correspondence with 
this opinion is the equally usual one, that the 
opinions of those who are on the eve of dissolu- 
tion, are likewise more prophetic ; and still further, 
the very current belief among the moderns, as 
well as the ancients, that morning dreams are the 
somnia vera, — the tiue dreams. 

There can be no doubt of the fact, that the 
thoughts of our sleep exert a larger influence on 
those of our wakefulness, than is generally sup- 
posed — and one very remarkable fact little noted 
by metaphysicians, proves this. The fact to which 
I allude is not a mere mental idiosyncracy, but 
is truly a feature in the human mind. The phe- 
nomenon is thus mentioned by Baron Smith : 'In 
connection with the phenomena of memory, may 
I be here permitted to take notice of a certain 
mystery or marvel which has occasionally pre- 
sented itself to me, and in voucher of the exis- 
tence of which I have the experience of others, in 
addition to my own? I mean that strange impres- 
sion, which will occasionally come with unex- 
pected suddenness on the mind, that the scene 



DREAMING. 313 

now passing, and in which we share, is one 
which, in the very words, with the same persons, 
and with the same feelings, we had accurately 
rehearsed we know not where before ! It is the 
more extraordinary of those sensations, (and is one 
which will occur,) wherein what is going forward, 
there is nothing remarkable or of particular inte- 
rest involved. While we speak, our former words 
are ringing in our ears, and the sentences which 
we form are the faint echoes of a conversation had 
in olden time! Our conscious thoughts, too, as 
they rise, seem to whisper to each other that this 
is not their first appearance in this place. In 
short, all that is now before us, seems the ap- 
parition of a dialogue long departed — the spectral 
resurrection of scenes and transactions long gone 
by. Or we may be said, by the momentary gleam 
of a flash of reminiscence, to be reviewing, in a 
mysterious mirror, the dark reflections of times 
past, and living over, in minute and shadowy 
detail, a duplicate of the incidents of some pre- 
existent state !' 

But this unconscious indebtedness, of our active 
and vigilant life, to the forgotten scenes and 
thoughts of our sleeping hours, was probably first 
alluded to, at least in more modern times, by Sir 
Walter Scott, in his Guy Mannering — for so 
Dugald Stewart thinks. That great mental phi- 
losopher gives the credit to his highly gifted 
countryman, of having first revealed to our dis- 
tinct notice, this strange reminiscence. The pas- 
sage in the novel, is that in which Bertram ex- 
27* 



314 ' DREAMING. 

presses his mysterious feelings at viewing the 
castle of Ellangovvan, from which he had been 
stolen when quite a child — and is as follows. 
'Why is it that some scenes awaken thoughts, 
which belong as it were to dreams of early and 
shadowy recollection, such as my old Bramin 
Moonshie would have ascribed to a state of pre- 
vious existence? Are they the visions of our 
sleep that float confusedly in our memory, and 
are recalled by the appearance of such real objects 
as in any respect correspond to the phantoms they 
presented to our imagination ? How often do we 
find ourselves in society which we have never 
before met, and yet feel impressed with a myste- 
rious and ill-defined consciousness that neither the 
scene, the speakers, nor the subject is entirely 
new ; nay, feel as if we could anticipate that part 
of the conversation which has not yet taken place?' 

We have reason then, to believe, that the lost 
thoughts of remote periods of our life — those of 
our earliest infancy — those of our dreams^ still 
float vaguely in our minds ; and, that they affect, 
more or less, the current of our wakeful existence, 
often imparting to it dim and confused remem- 
brances, which, in weak minds beget superstition, 
and which in strong ones, never fail to create 
some surprise. 

On the whole, it is most certain, as one of the 
black-letter writers hath it, that the 'Soul of Man 
is a Mystery, breathed out of the grand Mystery — 
a Ray of the Eternal Sun — which, when absolved 
from the pollutions of the flesh, is then capable of 



THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 315 

communicating with good spirits, and of being 
united to its divine original.' This being certainly 
so, it follows that, whilst it is the province of wis- 
dom to steer clear of the follies of those who would 
be learned beyond what is given to man, it is 
equally a duty to seek for light wherever it may be 
found. 

He, therefore, approves himself wise, who neither 
reposes on all that hath been said of dreams, nor 
scornfully rejects the whole, as savouring too 
much of religion — of superstition — and of over- 
curious learning. 



NOTE XX. — THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 
'THE ROBBERS.' 

Few things so simultaneously tend to form and 
evince the manners and genius of a people, as their 
public and accepted amusements. Whilst the pre- 
vailing taste is indicated by the encouragement 
accorded to public spectacles, these have powerful 
and pervading influence on the general and indivi- 
dual mind, by no means unworthy the attention, not 
only of the moralist, but of the statesman. 

It is not my wish to be enrolled in the catalogue 
of disputants either for or against the moral, intel- 
lectual, and political influence of the drama, for I 
think the difficulty has been formed by the honest 
but contracted and overheated zeal of the enemies 
of the buskin on the one hand, and the indiscrimi- 
nating and morbid attachment of its admirers on 
the other. The sound judgment and truth in this 



316 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 



^ 



I 



as well as most other matters lie, as I conceive, in 
the mean — since the drama is a good which contains 
within its very hearts core the seeds of its own 
corruption and dissolution. It is a good, which if 
wisely used, might be extensively and permanently 
beneficial ; but its excellencies amble on the very 
confines of vice and licentiousness, its virtues as- 
sociate too much with their opposite vices, and its 
collateral ill effects frequently more than counter- J 
poise its direct and legitimate tendencies. The 
drama in its purity would be a school of virtue. 
Sound morals conveyed through the medium of 
interesting incidents, enforced and radicated by the 
charms of eloquence and oratory, heightened and 
located by scenic representation, cannot fail to 
make impressions deep and lasting, for 

«What we hear 

With weaker passion will affect the heart, IBM 

Than when the faithful eije beholds the part.' ^^'' 

From the history of nations we may infer that a 
love for the drama is a dictate of nature, for no 
people have been found so rude as not to have 
fostered this species of divertissement. 

The passion for the drama has its foundation in 
our inherent fondness for novelty and fiction ; or 
in the more legitimate and lively interest which is 
taken in faithful delineations of the natural and 
affecting incidents of real life. The social and 
moral sympathies never fail to be excited, and the 
heart and understanding to be interested and im- 
proved, in proportion as the incidents and language 
of the drama approximate those of common life \ 



THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 317 

and nothing but a diseased judgment, a vitiated 
taste, or a corrupt heart can give a preference to 
the exhibition of murders^ assassinations ^ poison- 
ings^ parricides^ fratricides^ ghosts, wizards, witch- 
es, hobgoblins, fiends, bandits, robbers, &c. with all 
their horrid concomitants, to the natural and gra- 
dual development of those incidents which as they 
belong to humanity, and do occur, are calculated to 
excite our sympathies; and as they but seldom 
happen are sufficiently novel to rivet our attention, 
and agreeably agitate our social feelings. 

It may be advanced as a physical truth, that 
whatever gently exercises the mind or body, with- 
out fatigue, affords a pleasing sensation. The 
drama, therefore, if one of the objects be pleasure^ 
should never do violence to the moral feelings, 
should never overstep the modesty of nature. 
Probability, or, at least, possibility, should be kept 
in view. The imagination should not be forcibly 
exercised, but we should 

*Hold the golden mean. 
Keep the end in view, and follow natuye.' 

If Utility be an object, contemplated by the 
drama, nature and truth should never be forsaken 
for the wild and airy fictions of the imagination. 
But whilst we entertain this opinion, we conceive 
that all the faculties of the soul are reciprocally 
dependent, and impart strength and vigour to each 
other. The operations of the judgment are no 
doubt quickened and assisted by the imagination, 
and nothing can be more unphilosophical than the 



318 THOUGHTS ON A PLA.Y OR TWO. 

doctrine of a state of hostility between the various 
faculties of the mind. We are therefore, not un- 
friendly to the imagination, but only to its deli- 
riums ; for this faculty, of all others, needs restraint, 
as it is most liable to deterioration, and when once 
diseased, becomes dangerous to its associates, and is 
often found their tyrant and destroyer. We could 
therefore wish XhdX' Mother Goose,'^ ^Brazen Mask^ 
^ Valentine and Orson^ ' Cinderella!^ ^Hercules and 
Om'phale^ ^ The Flying Dutchman^ ^Mazeppa^^ 
'Aladdin^'' and a hundred other melo dramas, 
should less frequently appear. So, likewise, that 
all those tragedies in which poisonings and parri- 
cides, robberies, seductions, horrid vices, and all 
the black catalogue of the worst of human atroci- 
ties crowd in thick succession upon us, and depict 
our species as fiends principally intent on each 
other's misery and destruction — should never be 
exhibited. In the representation of these kind of 
scenes, every legitimate object of the drama is 
abandoned; for, we suppose, that no other object 
would be avowed but utility and pleasure. Man 
never improves by presenting his vices in gigantic 
stature. The mmd^ in such case, is too much 
occupied to permit the heart to feel, and the de- 
formity and unnatural bulk of the vice is such 
that the mind itself rejects it as a fiction. So, 
also, to a mind endued with any reason, delinea- 
tions of this description, afford no pleasure; or, at 
least, the pain to a feeling heart, more than coun- 
terpoises the agreeable emotions; or, perhaps, the 



THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 319 

most which can be accorded to them, is an alterna- 
tion of pleasurable, and very painful sensations. 
But if these kinds of representation afford little 
or no pleasure to rational and feeliiig minds, it 
may, perhaps, be admitted, that a considerable por- 
tion of an audience have neither much reason nor 
feelifig! If this be the case, it affords an addi- 
tional motive why the stage should be chastened ; 
why its corruptions and impurities, its obscenities 
and bad taste, should undergo a radical reform. 
The drama, then, is a good thing, much and con- 
stantly abused, and I cannot but lament that an 
institution so eminently calculated to foster and 
disseminate virtue, should so frequently stray from 
this salutary object, by the enactment of plays 
which shock every moral feeling, suffuse the cheek 
of modesty with overwhelming blushes, represent 
man as a monster of iniquity, render vice trium- 
phant in the very act of vice, clothe depravity with 
the habiliments of high-minded honour — and con- 
nect with it neutralizing virtues, that the character 
may thus find by stealthy a passport into our affec- 
tions ; treat the presence and the name of Deity 
with irreverence; ascribe io fate and to blind neces- 
sity, what is the result of a base heart, and of the 
conduct of a /ree agent; make love paramount and 
triumphant over every virtue which graces the 
more pure and tender sex ; place on the lips of a 
young, and lovely woman, sentiments at all times 
shocking, but peculiarly so when uttered at the 
very moment of resigning her soul into the hands 
of her Creator! — and yet all this^ and much more 



320 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. ^1' 

can be said of that abandoned^ deiestable^ wicked 
and incongruous play, called ' The Robbers.^ | 

What can be the motive for the frequent repeti- Ij 
lion of this sacrilegious and horrid play, we have f 
at all times been at a loss to imagine. Utility is 
entirely out of the question ; pleasure, as we con- 
ceive, equally so. We know that there is a certain 
anomalous principle in our nature which occasions 
us to take pleasure in the contemplation of scenes 
of affliction, in which the spectator would ever 
desire to avoid a participation. But this principle 
will not bear us through this shocking play, for it 
is a principle modified by another, which has been 
before mentioned, viz: that pleasure whether men- 
tal or sensual, is the result of a gentle exercise 
(without fatigue) of the organs of the body, or 
faculties of the mind ; so that the pleasure derived 
from the exhibition of the affliction of others, is 
immediately superseded by pain, when the imagi- 
nation, sympathy and moral feelings are so vio- 
lently acted upon, as they unquestionably are in 
the play of The Robbers. 

Few have attended the exhibition of this tra- 
gedy, without some shock to their feelings, and a 
transient resolution never again to see it; for that 
pleasure which is occasioned by scenes of afflic- 
tion, (as a sensible writer observes) is to be ascribed 
to a compound feeling, arising from the five sources 
of curiosity — sympathy — a degree of mental exer- 
tion — the idea of our own security — and from the 
interesting situations which occasionally happen in 
real life ; but pain must predominate when nothing 



THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 321 

but human vice and depravity are presented, and 
every generous, honourable, and virtuous principle 
is violated. 

Legitimate tragedy, according to Aristotle, and 
more modern judicious authors, through the me- 
dium of embellished language and a degree of terror 
and pity, must induce a refinement and melioration 
of our passions. That the 'Robbers,^ is calculated 
either to excite even pity, or to refine and melio- 
rate the passions is what we utterly deny; for 
there is no character in the piece^ (except perhaps 
the Count de Moor) that is not very objectionable, 
and the sentiments, with a few bright exceptions, 
can excite nothing but alternate terror and disgust. 

Schiller, the author of this celebrated piece, has 
frequently been compared by his warm admirers 
to Shakspeare, and this play of the Robbers lo 
Richard III. We are very favourably impressed 
with the genius of Schiller, and have no hesitation 
in admitting that he has given us, in this very 
piece, considerable evidences of it. Our objections 
to the play are chiefly of a moral nature, we con- 
sider it destitute of utility, and so artfully contrived 
and ingeniously wrought up, as to be extremely 
pernicious in its tendency. 

Neither time nor inchnation admit of a critical 
and minute analysis of the merits and demerits of 
this play, but if any good may result from our 
animadversions, it will be necessaYy to point out 
somewhat definitively, though briefly, our objec- 
tions. 

28 



322 . THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 

The pivot on which the incidents of this piece 
rest, is the doctrine of fatahty. This, as is ob- 
served by the translator, ^pervades the whole piece, 
and influences the conduct of the chief agents in 
the drama.' It requires but little knowledge of the 
human mind, and certainly no philosophical acu- 
men to discern the pernicious results of the admis- 
sion of that doctrine which ascribes a fixity and 
unalterable nature to the course of human events; 
which makes man a mere machine, acting in irre- 
versible subordination to the agency of a superior 
power; which ascribes to virtue and vice neither 
merit nor demerit, but attributes to the agent a 
passive subjection to irresistible impulses. This 
doctrine is the veil which is designed to cover the 
black and heinous iniquity of Charles de Moor. 
It is the [flattering unctioii^ which is to soften the 
pains of a harrowed conscience — it is the source of 
pity and commiseration for Charles's sufferings ; 
and here, then, is the great evil resulting from the 
admission of the principle. 

But the friends of Schiller say, that this fatalism 
did not weaken his moral sensibility or his con- 
sciousness of the imputability of his crimes ! We 
admit that it did not entirely extinguish humanity ; 
nature would occasionally dawn through the dark 
covering of his crimes, and remorse take entire 
possession of his soul. But still, we find him to 
rest his crimes on the impious, but to him some- 
what soothing belief, that he was the instrument 
of vengeance in the hands of the Almighty for the 
punishment of others.' The government and laws 



THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 323 

of his country are to sleep, whilst he, the guiltiest 
wretch of all, presumed to judge and punish guilt! 

'Now hear me, sir,' (says this honourable villain to the 
commissary of his injured country) 'hear Moor the cap- 
tain of these incendiaries. It is true I have assassinated 
a count of the empire. It is true I have burnt dnd 
plundered the church of the Dominicans. It is true I 
have set fire to your bigoted town, and blown up your 
powder magazine. But I have done more than all that. 
Look here, (holding out his hand) at these four rings of 
value ! This ruby I drew from the finger of a minister 
whom I cut down at the chase, at his prince's feet. 
He had built his fortune on the miseries of his fellow 
creatures, and his elevation was marked by the tears 
of the fatherless and the widow. This diamond I took 
from a treasurer-general, who made a traffic of offices of 
trust, and sold honours, the rewards of merit, to the 
highest bidder. This camelion I wear in honour of a 
priest J whom I dispatched with my own hand for his 
most pious and passionate lamentation over the fall of 
the Inquisition. I could expatiate at large, sir, on the 
history of these rings, did I not already repent that I 
have wasted words on a man unworthy to hear me.' 

But Moor, as we shall see, did not even restrict 
himself to this abandoned principle of taking the 
sword of justice into his own hand. 

Admitting that the doctrine of fatalism, as incul- 
cated in this play, does not extinguish conscience 
and remorse, it is still highly deleterious ; for if 
once a villain conceives himself damned past all 
redemption, where is the restraint upon his fiend- 
like passions : where is the boundary to his atro- 
cities? Besides this, the principle of fatality is 



324 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. ^4' 

generally found to accompany vice, not virtue. 
The fatalist does not conceive himself destined to 
act the part of innocence and unblemished virtue. 
But sufficient has been said of this dangerous 
feature of the play. 

The next which may perhaps be worthy atten- 
tion, is Charles de Moor's soliloquy on suicide in 
the forest scene of the fourth act. After the com- 
mission of crimes at which nature recoils, and 
the genial current in our veins should pause, 
Moor and his fiend-like associates stretch them- 
selves on the ground, in the forest of Bohemia, 
to rest their wearied hmbs. Though night's sable 
curtain hung o'er the world, and all without was 
tranquil, sleep could find no welcome, peace no 
entrance into Charles' bosom; all his black enor- 
mities stared him in the face, and self-slaughter 
appeared, to his distracted soul, the only antidote ! 

Moor. — 'Good night' (to his companions) ^forever— 
a long, long night! on which no morrow e'er shall 
dawn. Think you that I will tremble ! never, never. — 
Shadows of the dead, the murdered, rise ! no joint of 
me shall quake. Your dying agonies, your black and 
strangled visage, your gaping wounds— these are but 
links of that eternal chain of destiny which wound itself 
around me from my birth — which hung perhaps upon 
the humours of my nurse, my father's temperament, 
or my mother's blood. Why did the great artificer 
form, like Perillus, this monster whose burning entrails' 
yearn for human flesh? (draws a pistol.) This little 
tube unites eternity to time ! This key will shut the 
prison door of life, and open wide the regions of futu- 
rity. Tell me, oh tell ! to what unknown, what stranger 



THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 325 

coast thou shalt conduct me ! The soul recoils and 
shrinks with terror from that awful thought ; while busy- 
fancy fills the scene with horrid phantoms — No, no! 
man must not hesitate. Be what thou will, thou world 
without a name, so that this self remains ; this self 
within. For all that is external what has it of reality 
beyond that form and colour w^hich the mind itself 
bestows ? — I am myself my heaven or my hell,' (look- 
ing towards the horizon) 'If he should give me a new 
earth, some blasted region banished from his sight — 
where I alone inhabited, companion of eternal night 
and silence, this mind, this all creative brain, would 
people the hideous void with its own images — would 
fill the vast space with sweet chimera — forms, that 
all eternity were scarce sufficient to unravel them. — 
But perhaps it is by ever-varying scenes of misery in 
this ill world, that step, by step, he leads me to an- 
nihilation. Oh that it were possible to stop the current 
of that after life, as easy as to break the thread of this ! 
thou may'st reduce me into nothing — ^but of this liberty 
I cannot be deprived,' (cocks the pistol, raises it, and 
suddenly stops.) 'And shall I then rush to death 
through a slavish dread of living here in torment ! No ; 
I will bear it all, and brave the malice of my fate,' (puts 
up the pistol.) 'My pride shall conquer sufferance. 
Let the destiny of Moor be accomplished.' 

Moor then declined self- slaughter only because 
it argued in him 'a slavish dread of living here 
in torment.' 

Another prominent defect in the moral of this 
piece is the paramount influence which is ascribed 
to love. It was wisely intended by Him who im- 
planted this principle in our nature, that it should 
28* 



326 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. flll 

be strong ; that as the source of most of our joys 
it should meliorate the heart, soften it to the in- 
fluence of virtuous sentiments, chasten it from all 
selfish motives; and, that amidst the sad vicissitudes 
of hfe, it should invigorate the mind to steady and 
honourable perseverance in warding off from the 
possessor of our affections the causes of infelicity. 
But love should never triumph over virtue, never 
extinguish from the soul that parsimount obliga- 
tion which is due to God and to society. But we 
find that Amelia^ after a full development of her 
lover's vices, that he was a savage murderer, and 
the chief of a more savage band, rushes, neverthe- 
less, into his arms, exclaiming, 'murderer! — fiend! 
whatever thou art — angel to me \ I will not let thee 
go.' And the concluding scene is still more ob- 
jectionable, for she dies with a shocking sentiment 
expiring on her lips ! 

Moor. — ^On deeds like these we pause not 'till they 
are done. I'll think on this — hereafter!' (stabs Amelia.) 

Robbers. — ^Bravo, most noble captain ! thy honour is 
discharged — thou Prince of Robbers!' 

Moor. — ^Now she is mine, she's mine forever — or, 
that hereafter is the dream of fools ! I have foiled my 
destiny — in spite of fate I have brought home my bride, 
and with this sword have sealed our wedding vows.' 
(To Amelia with tenderness) 'was it not sweet, my 
Amelia, to die thus by thy bridegroom's hand ?' 

Amelia. — (Stretching out her hand to him) 'Oh most 
sweet!' 

Here love is made to triumph over death, the 
grave, eternity, and God; and without any com- 



THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 327 

pensative motive, or principle whatever; and is, 
therefore, as destitute of philosophy, as of virtue. 
We will notice a few more vices in this play, 
and then proceed to a brief consideration of the 
character of some of the prominent personages. 
In this drama we have an instance of cool and 
aggravated parricide. We have presented to us 
the shocking spectacle of a brother executing dead- 
ly vengeance on his brother ; of an aged and doat- 
ing parent suddenly expiring from the unexpected 
disclosure of his son's enormities ; of a murderer 
assuming to himself an attribute of Deity; and 
we see an Earldom bequeathed as the recompense 
of successful villany I 

Moor, — (taking the hands of Kozinski and Switzer, 
and addressing himself to Switzer.) 'These hands I 
have deep imbrued in blood — that be my offence not 
thine! here with this grasp I take what is mine own. 
Now Switzer, thou art pure ! (raises their hands to 
heaven with fervour) 'Father of heaven here I re- 
store them ; they will be more fervently thy own than 
those who never fell." An Earldom becomes mine this 
day by heritage, a rich domain on which no malediction 
rests — share it between you : become good men : good 
citizens : And if for ten whom I have destroyed, you 
make but one man blest, my soul may yet be saved !' 

Let me now proceed to note a slight sketch of 
the principal characters in this tragedy* 

As the exhibition of vice, in her most hideous 
mieuy appears to have been the author's favourite 
design, we will consider Francis, and not Charles 
de Moor, as the hero of the tale. We do not 



328 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 

recollect to have ever met with a more perfect and 
finished character in abandoned villany, in cool, 
ingenious, artful, systematic wickedness than Fran- 
cis de Moor. In this one character we have an 
assemblage of all that is cruel, infamous, relentless 
and atrocious in the human heart. No other than 
Schiller's creative imagination could have formed 
such a monster — as Francis stands before us, in 
his soliloquy at the commencement of the second 
act. 

[Francis de Moor alone in his apartment.'] 
Francis, — 'I've lost all patience with these doctors. 
An old man's life is an eternity. Must my towering 
plans creep the snail's pace of a dotard's lingering hours ? 
Could not one point out a new track for death to enter 
the fort? Kill the body by tearing the soul! Ay, that 
were an original invention : he that could make that dis- 
covery were a second Columbus in the empire of death — 
think on that Moor. 'Twere an art worthy to have thee 
for its inventor ! How then shall we begin the w^ork ? 
What humble emotion would have the force to break at 
once the thread of life ! Rage ? No ; that hungry wolf 
surfeits himself and regorges his meal. Grief 1 That's a 
worm that lingers on the flesh, and mines his way too 
slowly 1 Fear 1 No ; hope blunts his dart and will not 
let him strike his prey : What ? Are these our only exe- 
cutioners ? is the arsenal of death so soon exhausted ? 
hum, hum! (musing) no more? ha! I have it; terror 
is the word — terror! reason, religion, hope — all must 
give way before this giant fiend ; and then — should he 
even bear the shock — there's more behind — Anguish of 
mind, come aid the imperfect work ; repentance, gnaw- 
ing viper of the soul — monster, thou dost ruminate thy 



d 



THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 329 

baneful food, and thou remorse, that livest on thy 
mother's flesh, and was'nt thine own inheritance: and 
you, even you, ye blissful years o'er past, display your 
charms to memory's retrospect, and poison w^ith your 
, sweets the present hour; ye scenes oi future bliss com- 
bine to wound — show him the joys of paradise before 
him, and hold the dazzling mirror out to hope, but cheat 
his feeble grasp ! Thus let me play my battery of death — 
stroke after stroke incessant — till nature's mound is bro- 
ken, and the whole troop of furies seize the soul, and 
end their work by horror and despair; triumphant 
thought! — So now — the plan's my own: now for the 
work.' 

The character of Francis is well sustained, and 
uniform throughout the play. But the delineation 
of such iniquity, ripe and in full maturity when 
first presented to us, can be productive of no good. 
The character is unnaturally wicked ; but if natu- 
ral, let us remain ignorant of it as long as possible; 
for by the admission of such characters, the drama 
familiarizes us with them, and thereby renders 
vice less odious. Maximilian de Moor, the un- 
happy parent of this noble pair of brothers, is a 
very neutral character, neither formed to instruct, 
to please, nor to excite even pity. He evinces 
great weakness in suffering himself to be duped 
by the artifices of his son Francis, whose charac- 
ter he well knew, and especially as they were 
directed against a favourite and beloved son, with 
whose few virtues he was perfectly acquainted. 
Here also we find a parent's infirmity the cause 
of his child's desperate depravity ! 



330 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 

In the character of Charles de Moor we find a 
strange assemblage of high-toned honour, and lack 
of principle, of filial love, and filial irreverence, of 
misanthropy, and a morbid feeling for the unme- 
rited sufferings of his fellow-subjects, of fatahsm 
and compunction, of genius and folly, of manly 
virtue, and deadly vice ? But that complexity of 
character, that wildness and romance, that elevated 
honour, that sickly humanity, that dignified cou- 
rage, and that brilliancy of mind which Charles 
possessed, in union with qualities of a very oppo- 
site nature, are what render him so dangerous. 
The author if he desired to fascinate to vice, knew 
the human heart too well, not to amalgamate with 
iniquity, some of the luring, brilliant and captivat- 
ing qualities of the heart and mind. Charles may 
insinuate himself with all his heavy load of vice, 
into our affection, but Francis is too glaringly 
deformed by sin to ever claim an entrance. That 
there is in reality this dangerous fascination in the 
character of Charles there can be but little doubt : 
for its influence has been felt, as appears by the 
acknowledgment of the translator that ^the effects 
of this tragedy were so powerful, and as some 
thought so dangerous, that in several states its 
representation was prohibited by the legislature.' 
Why then, we may ask, translate and diffuse it? 
We are likewise informed that ^after the repre- 
sentation of this tragedy at Fribourg, a large par- 
ty of the youth of the city, among whom were 
the sons of some of the chief nobility, captivated 
by the grandeur of the character of its hero 



THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 331 

(Charles de Moor) agreed to form a band like his, 
in the forests of Bohemia ; elected a young noble- 
man for their chief, and pitched on a beautiful 
young lady for his Amelia, whom they were to 
carry off from her parents' house to accompany 
their flight ! To the accomplishment of this 
design they had bound themselves by the most 
tremendous oaths ; but the conspiracy was dis- 
covered, and its execution prevented.' And in 
our own country, we regret to have it in our 
power to say that we have heard great and un- 
qualified expressions of admiration of the charac- 
ter of Charles de Moor ! 

Let us now turn from the view of so much 
depravity, and, in the contemplation of the beau- 
tiful Amelia, endeavour to find some cheering rays 
of virtue amidst this, hitherto, general and imper- 
vious gloom of vice. Here, too, alas ! we are dis- 
appointed ! Who could have imagined that in so , 
/air, so lovely a tenement, aught but the virtues^ 
the loves^ and the mental graces could find admis- 
sion? But as the author intended to present us 
with the black side of the picture of humanity, we 
must content ourselves, and view Amelia's charac- 
ter as we find it. 

Never was Pope's sentiment that ^most women 
have no character at all,' more strikingly exempli- 
fied than in Amelia, who cam^elion-like^ changes 
with the varying scenes, and in the space of a few 
weeks exhibits a variety of dispositions very irre- 
concilable with each other. 



332 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 

In the opening scene with Francis, she appears 
to us in the character of a masculine, determined 
woman, sensible of her injuries, resolute and able 
to assert them, incensed to the highest degree, and 
mature for vengeance. 

Amelia* (surveying Francis with a long look.) Is it 
you? You here ! whom of all mankind I most desired 
to see.' 

Francis. 'Me ? is it possible ; me of all mankind 1' 

Amelia, Tou sir, even you. I have hungered—-! 
have thirsted for the sight of you. Stay I conjure you. 
Here prisoner; let me enjoy my highest pleasure, let me 
curse thee to thy face.' 

Francis, 'I love thee, Amelia— as my soul I love 
thee.' 

Amelia, Well, if you love me, can you refuse me 
one small request ? 

Francis, ^I can refuse thee nothing, were it even my 
life ^ 

Amelia, 'Well then, I ask what you will grant with 
all your soul, (proudly,) I ask you to hate me ; I 
should die for shame, if, while I thought on Charles, I 
could for a moment believe thou didst not hate me. 
Give thy promise, villain, and begone.' 

In the scene in which she next appears, Amelia 
is subdued by love, tenderly yielding to its endear- 
ing influences, spreading roses on the bed, whilst 
anxiously watching the slumbers of the father of 
her Charles ; in the same scene she again becomes 
a masculine heroine, and then, anon, in her inter- 
view with Herman, she is the woman all, artless, 
unsuspicious, and easily deceived ! In the garden 
scene, in the third act, during her interview with 



I 



THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 333 

Francis, we find her serious^ prudent ^ gentle^ vio- 
lent^ malignant, terrible ! 

Amelia, See'st thou now, villain! (drawing his sword 
from him) ^what I can do? I am a woman, but a 
woman roused — dare to come near me, and this steel — 
my uncle's spirit shall guide it to thy heart ! Fly me 
this instant. 

In the colloquy she holds in the gallery, with 
the supposed Count de Brand, she gravely philoso- 
phizes on the fleeting nature of earthly bliss' — and 
evinces to the Count much feeling, when he draws 
her attention to the portrait of Charles, then before 
her in the guise of Count de Brand. She reveals 
the fact of her lingering love for him, and in her 
soliloquy a few minutes after, she discovers her 
incipient love for this Count ! alternating with her 
resolution that 'Charles shall ever be buried in her 
heart, and never shall human being fill his place !' 
Schiller would say, with Shakspeare, 

■ 'Frailty^ thy name is woman,^ 

for though Herman had just informed her that her 
lover still lives, in her next interview with the 
Count de Brand, she loves him quite! The Count 
presses with ardour her lily hand to his lips, and 
Amelia false to Charles, tells him 'his kisses burn 
like fire.' The Count tenderly embraces her, re- 
poses his head on her bosom, she blushes, prays 
heaven to forgive the Count for making her re- 
creant to Charles ! She then gives him the ring 
that Charles had presented to her, and exclaims 
'Oh Charles! now strike me dead, my vows are 

broken! Charles reveals himself, Amelia faints 
29 



334 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 

and the curtain drops! Such then is Amelia! and 
a more worthless, whimsical, silly, and odious 
lady, can scarce be well imagined — for though 
there be weak and shameless women, the infamous 
moral inculcated by these scenes with Amelia, is a 
gross slander on the sex, and is no true picture of 
what would be likely to occur with one of her 
rank, and with one so tenderly raised as she. 

Were the drama uniformly such as is represented 
in this play, it were better to put the torch to every 
theatre in the land ; for, under the influences of 
such tuition, our young women would scarce know 
how to blush, and our young men would rather take 
counsel of the two De Moors, than of the Mentor 
of a Telemachus. A word now as to Coleridge's 

^REMORSE.' 

The principal merit of dramatic poetry is derived 
from its subserviency to the faithful, impressive 
and glowing delineation of man in his most inte- 
resting relations. Its professed object is the melio- 
ration of the heart and affections, by the presenta- 
tion (in a small compass) of a vast variety of inci- 
dent, character and sentiment. If the drama be 
thus contemplated as the mirror reflecting at one 
view the ever varied scenes of life ; as the polished 
speculum in which we discover, with certainty, the 
resemblance of all that endears man to man, or 
that weakens or severs the ties which unite him, 
it cannot but claim an ample portion of public 
' esteem and patronage. 

The modern drama, like the illusions of sleep, 
regardless, in a degree, of the unities, either of 



THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 335 

uction^ time or place ^ presents to our view a com- 
plication of incidents, illustrative of the direful 
consequences resulting from the unguarded and 
licentious indulgence of our passions ; places be- 
fore us in all their native loveliness, the charms of 
virtue, and the hideousness of vice ; depicts in a 
bird^s-eye view that which in real life is often dif- 
fused over a vast expanse of time and space ; and 
represents to us in combination, numerous circum- 
stances from which the reflecting mind, by a spe- 
cies of moral alchemy, may extract useful lessons. 
All this is the professed and legitimate object of 
the drama; and were it uniformly adhered to, it 
would be a powerful means of virtuous inculcation. 
To this concentration of action, manners and 
sentiments, are we to attribute the efficiency of the 
drama, as it is that which chiefly distinguishes it 
from real life. The drama is seldom a copy from 
any particular view in life, but is formed by a 
judicious selection and happy combination in one 
picture, of various scenes, so mixed and artfully 
blended as to be productive of no incongruity. 
But whilst this liberty of picking and culling from 
the great storehouse of hfe, is accorded to the 
dramatic poet, it is only for the purpose of placing 
before us, in harmonious union, things which have 
a natural congeniality. Like the sculptor, he may 
take the eye from one, the arm from another, the 
neck from a third; but they must all adjust in fit 
proportions to each other, else, instead of a paragon 
of beauty, we should have naught but deformity. 
To delineate with truth and vigour a variety of 



336 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 

characters; to preserve throughout the piece that 
consistency and unity of character which makes 
them upon all occasions, act, speak and think as 
they respectively should do, and to blend nume- 
rous incidents so as to have an obvious relation to 
each other, is a task of no minor difficulty, and is a 
point to which few, very few, attain. 

It is manifest that the above remarks rather apply 
to what is acknowledged by all should be the state 
of the drama, than to what has in reality, generally 
been attained by dramatic writers. 

The poetry of the drama, has, by universal con- 
sent been placed in the scale of poetic dignity, next 
to the epic, and we doubt not that as respects utility^ 
(were it what it could be,) it would be entitled to a 
still more elevated position. But the epic has but 
seldom been degraded either to the base purpose of 
contaminating morals, disseminating false and dan- 
gerous opinions in religion, government or man- 
ners, or to the hasty acquisition of a pittance to 
answer the cravings of daily want, or to supply 
the senseless profusion of inconsiderate spendthrifts. 
Melpomene and Thalia have been invoked by any 
and all who fancied they could wield 

*A pen, 
That mighty instrument of little men,' 

and this art, so difficult and nice, which demands 
so long an apprenticeship to observation of men 
and manners, and which requires such an intimate 
acquaintance with the human heart, its springs and 
principles of action, this art we say (as Socrates 



THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 337 

speaking of government used to say) is in the 
hands of all ^ every one presuming himself ^^t^a/i^^erf 
for the undertaking! Hence it is that we not un- 
frequently see the apparent phenomenon of an 
entire audience yielding to the influence oi Momus 
when every passion of the human mind had been 
arrayed to lead the heart into captivity. Hence it 
is that the marvellous and impossible have super- 
seded the natural and possible. Hence it is that 
Dr. Hurde has ventured to say that 'the sole and 
contemptible aim of comedy is to excite laughter.'^ 
Hence it is that rehgion, and the clergy, decorum 
and sound morals, government and orthodox poli- 
tics have all, at times, endured the severity of dra- 
matic misrepresentation and caricature, and hence 
it is that real life has frequently, by a shameful 
inversion, taken its hue and character from the 
stage, instead of the drama from it. 

But let it not be supposed that these prefatory 
remarks are the immediate consequence of a peru- 
sal or attendance upon the representation of Mr. 
Coleridge's ^Remorse.'' Far from it: they are the 
result of a general contemplation of the situation 
of the dramatic art. 

The piece before us is by no means deficient in 
dramatic merit ; on the contrary, it has numerous 
beauties. 

As action, or the combination of incidents, is the 
very soul of tragedy, it demands, in dramatic cri- 
ticism, a primary attention. The manners, or that 
which evolves the characters of the agents ; and 
the sentiments, by which their opinions and inten- 
29* 



338 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 

tions are developed, are certainly subordinate: for 
neither manners nor sentiments are essential to 
tragedy; or rather the effect is produced principally 
by the fable; whereas, if the incidents of this fable 
be unnatural or uninteresting, no substitute can be 
found in either the language, sentiments or man- 
ners of the piece. 

In the constitution of a good play it is not only 
requisite that the fable or action should be simple^ 
but it should gradually and naturally evolve itself. 
The attention of the audience should not be put 
into continued requisition to unravel the tale, and 
to discover the connection and operation of the 
incidents on each other. By simplicity of the fable 
or action we do not mean to exclude a variety of 
incidents, provided they all have an evident con- 
centration to that point on which the peripitiaoi 
catastrophe rests ; but by simplicity we mean such 
a unity of action, though composed of numerous 
incidents, as contains no collateral, subordinate 
and independent events, introduced merely as 
episodes. In this respect we think Mr. Coleridge's 
'Remorse' entitled to much praise. But though 
the action or fable of this piece be simple, it 
does not, as we conceive, easily and gradually 
evolve itself, as it is usually represented. But this 
arises from the injudicious omission (in representa- 
tion) of certain passages, rather than from a defect 
in the production itself. We would here remark, 
that the practice of pruning or curtailing is gene- 
rally rather too liberally indulged in, either for the 



THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO, 339 

reputation of the dramatic author, or the effect 
upon the audience. 

From the title of this play we would suppose 
that its author principally intended to exhibit the 
sad and melancholy, but instructive operation of 
that gall of a wounded and lacerated conscience, 
remorse: and that he designed to place before us 
a character alternately yielding to the basest pas- 
sions of the heart, and to the agonizing effects of 
remorse,^ — to represent one in whom 

'The stronger guilt defeats the strong intent. 
And like a man to double business bound. 
Stands in pause where he shall first begin. 
And both neglects.' 

But we do not find precisely this character in 
Ordonio, — Remorse is said to be composed of 
shame from a sense of the impropriety of past 
actions, of grief for the effects of them, of pity 
for those who suffer by them, and of the dread 
and terror of punishment, from the consciousness 
of the justly provoked resentment of all rational 
creatures. 

In Ordanio, the intended murderer of his bro- 
ther Alvar, and the real assassin of Issidore, we 
find a man corrupt to the heart's core, capable of 
any crime his purposes might demand, and but 
seldom yielding to the subduing influence of con- 
science and remorse, except when his feelings were 
particularly excited by some momentous incident, 
or very pointed remarks of those around him. 
When these occur he shows the raging of the 
storm within. A brother's murder presses sorely 



340 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 

on him ; but sunk thus deep in guilty remorse gives 
way, and new crimes suggest themselves as neces- 
sary to extricate him from his difficulties. Ordo- 
nio's character is certainly drawn with a bold pen- 
cil, but would have been much better had he occa- 
sionally evinced uncalled for^ or in the way of 
soliloquy a sense of the deep damnation of his 
guilt. The fact, however, is that Ordonio's re- 
morse was at all times but short hved, the mere 
ephemera of a raoment, called into being by the 
pressure of the cloud which was gjadually thick- 
ening around him. It was not that species of 
remorse which effects a change of character and 
life ; it had rather mjore of dread and terror in its 
composition, than of grief and pity. True, as the 
author says, 

*Remorse is as the heart, in which it grows : 
If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews 
Of true repentance, but if proud and gloomy. 
It is a poison tree, that pierced to the inmost 
Weeps only tears of poison !' Act I. — Scene 1. 

The scene of this drama lies in Granada, in the 
reign of the second Philip^ just after the edict inhi- 
biting the wearing of the Morescoe costume, and 
at the close of these bloody wars which terminated 
the empire and influence of the Arabs in Spain. 
The Marquis Valdez, a venerable and worthy old 
gentleman, had two sons, Alvar and Ordonio* 
Alvar, the elder, graced by every manly and en- 
dearing virtue, tenderly loved Teresa, an orphan 
heiress who lived under the protection of his 



THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 341 

father; and his attachment was ardently recipro- 
cated. 

Ordonio, in whose heart every species of vice, 
seemed to find its genial soil, viewed with malig- 
nant dislike his brother's superiority, and envied 
him the happiness he enjoyed in the affections of 
the lovely Teresa. 

This unnatural brother, conceiving that Teresa 
might be his, if Alvar were but removed, formed 
the shocking design of murdering him, through 
the instrumentality of Issidore, a Morescoe chief- 
tain, who was kept ignorant of the fact that Alvar 
was Ordonio's brother. Alvar, in his defence 
^fought valiantly^ both Issidore and his accom- 
plices, and finally escaped. After an absence of 
several years, in which he endured imprisonments 
and toils, he returns to his native land, and visits 
the scenes of his former happiness, with his adored 
Teresa. During Alvar's absence, the aged Valdez, 
deceived by the arts and hypocrisy of Ordonio, 
who had persuaded him that Alvar had been cap- 
tured within his own sight by an Algerine pirate, 
and had subsequently perished in a storm, used 
much entreaty with Teresa to forget Alvar, and 
bestow her heart and hand on his virtuous and 
worthy brother Ordonio. 

Unsuccessful in his legitimate endeavours to 
secure the affections of Teresa, Ordonio had resort 
to stratagem. Availing himself of the supersti- 
tions of the times, he called the arts of sorcery to 
his aid, in order to assure Teresa of Alvar's death, 
and thereby to reconcile her to his wishes. Alvar 



342 THOUGHTS ON A PLAY OR TWO. 

who lived ^n disguise, and had gained the reputa- 
tion of a sorcerer^ was employed by Ordonio for 
this very purpose. Alvar, however, so arranged 
his wizard plans, as to discover to Valdez and 
Teresa in the presence of Ordonio, that he had 
fallen by the hand of an assassin, and had not 
perished in a storm. Ordonio's veracity, thus 
called in questibn, together with his incautious 
agitation create suspicions. He precipitately leaves 
them, suspecting Issidore as the author of this con- 
trivance, and that he had revealed his secret to the 
sorcerer. Alvar is immediately hastened to a dun- 
geon by the familiars of the inquisition for 'foul 
sorcery,' and Ordonio invites Issidore to a cave, 
claiming his protection against the arm of danger. 
Ordonio there murders Issidore, and thence pro- 
ceeds to the dungeon with a view of despatching 
the sorcerer, and thus to rid himself of those to 
whom alone his secret was known. 

Teresa had gained admittance into the dungeon 
a few minutes before Ordonio's entrance. Alvar 
discovers himself to Teresa, and a most tender and 
affecting interview ensues. On Ordonio's appear- 
ance Teresa secretes herself. Here a deep feeling 
colloquy follows between these brothers, and at 
the instant as Ordonio raises his dagger to the sor- 
cerer's breast, Teresa rushes out, 'Ordonio! tis thy 
brother,'^ Here the catastrophe commences. Hor- 
ror, anguish of mind, and remorse, in full array, 
present themself to the distressed, tortured Ordo- 
nio. Self murder is hailed as the only relief; but 
the foul deed was prevented by the generous and 



THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 343 

amiable Alvar, who yet loved his brother, and 
would have saved his life and ^honour^ had not at 
this moment the distracted Ahadra, the wife of the 
murdered Issidore, rushed in and stabbed Ordonio. 
Here the curtain drops, leaving us under the pleas- 
ing prospect of Alvar's union with TerQsa, and 
their becoming the solace and comfort of their 
aged father. 

Alvar's uniformly amiable character, his forgive- 
ness of the many wrongs he had sustained from 
his brother, and his tender and honourable feelings 
in the highly interesting scene with him in the 
dungeon, is contrasted, with a master hand, with 
the malignity and vice of Ordonio. Alvar is re- 
stored to Teresa and happiness, at the moment in 
which Ordonio meets that fate which even in this 
world very generally attends those who stray far 
into the very paths of vice. 

'Hence learn what blessings wait on virtuous deeds. 
And though a late, a sure reward succeeds.' 



NOTE XXI. — THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 

The lives of some men, from youth to old age, 
illustrate so forcibly the advantages of Impudence, 
that I am disposed, with Menander, to rank it 
among the greatest of deities ; and, from my inner 
50ul to lament that I have ever blushed, and that 
nature had not given me even more than the ces 
frontis triplex. Moreover, when I do remember 
that Holy Writ hath declared Hhe race is not to 
the swift, nor the battle to the strong,' I naturally 



344 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 

inquire, what is left, then, but sure success to the 
impudent? and the chronicles of all past time, as 
well as my own reason, do respond — 'thou hast 
said it.' Nay, it seemeth to me as if 'twere a 
golden law of nature, not only that he who buries 
his talent shall languish in obscurity, but also, 
that he who fails impudently and importunately to 
blazon forth all that he hath, and more, and to 
usher into broad day light, with every meretricious 
garniture, his very all, is surely destined to pass 
down the stream of time, as worthless rubbish ; 
and, in the great abyss of eternal forgetfulness to 
remain, a poor martyr to the purest of nature's 
products — modesty ! 

Be, then, my theme the proud advantages, the 
radiant glories of unalloyed, disembodied, prolific 
Impudence — of that callous sort which hath its 
seat deep in the soul, which forms part of our 
inmost nature, takes but its light complexion from 
adventitious causes, is ever harmonious with itself, 
and which triumphs equally over circumstances, 
and the would-be shadowing influences of superior 
minds ! 

Some do, indeed, gain many a point by modes- 
ty, clad in Impudence's habiliments ; but I sing of 
that mysterious influence which nature doth to 
some impart, and which commands success, appa- 
rently, sine assentationey sine blanditiiSy sine dica- 
citate, sine audacia ferreoe frontis ; and this, the 
highest order of its attributes, points it out as the 
only kind of Impudence the prince of Greek come- 
dies would have ranked among the greater deities ! 



THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 345 

The inferior sorts of Impudence, though admirable 
in their kind, and truly useful in their way, need 
too much of industrious cultivation, and of man's 
feeble art, to claim omnipotence : but, where nature 
hath truly laid deep her brazen foundations, and 
thereon hath been raised a goodly superstructure, 
the result of long experience in the art, the castle 
of Impudence thus raised, becometh impregnable — 
all arms are silenced, and the lord thereof hath 
crowds of suppliant worshippers, who grant unto 
him freely, in the ratio of the enormity of his 
demands ! 

For who, let me ask, accordeth any thing to 
mere anticipators, nay, even to diffident askers? 
And, on the other hand, who so bold as to refuse 
something at least, to the importunate demands of 
the daringly impudent ? — very few, I ween; for all 
experience teacheth that the multitude pileth bless- 
ings and honours upon the adventurous, the fortu- 
nate, and the self-adulating, as Pelion upon Ossa, 
and Ossa upon Pelion; and that the crowd doth 
love to exaggerate the successes of such, quite as 
much as these hardy-faced personages do love to 
loom so largely ! It is so, and yet even more than 
this, for, some of the most renowned charlatans 
the world hath ever known, were made so, partly 
"by the flattery of the plebs. The noble distinction 
of being essentially and ex natura impudent, be- 
longeth only to a blessed few ; and when to this 
be added their own industry in this line, and the 
hosannas of the multitude, so sure to follow, they 
30 



346 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 

then do truly become Menander's deities, and the 
most brilliant among fortune's favourites. 

There ^re, indeed, instances where modest merit 
hath become a favoured child of Impudence, vaunt- 
ing as loud as any, after it hath made some happy 
hit, and for which it hath been long and inordi- 
nately praised — but genuine, lordly Impudence is 
that which starts into life full grown, and with 
brazen armour, regardless of teachings and train- 
ings, reposes on nature's high endowments ; and, - 
with magic skill, embalms all flatteries, and anni- 
hilates all frowns ! 

When I take a retrospect of the chronicles of 
Impudence in all ages, nations, tribes, families, and 
individuals, and find how much it hath been men- 
tally idolized by them ail, I am lost in wonder that 
temples and altars have not been openly raised to 
it, and that no avowed god hath therein presided, — 
for, when poets, and others have spoken of it as 
a great deity, they simply meant that it well de- 
served so to be regarded. In more modern ages, 
and in our own day, the triumphs of Impudence 
were, and are, equally signal, as may be seen in 
the marvellous history of the necromancers, of 
the astrologers, alchemists, empyrics, panacea- 
venders, and in the golden accumulations of those 
whose trifles have been grandiloquently puffed; 
and lastly, in the contrasted neglect and poverty 
of those whose great inventions change the face of 
nature, annihilate time and space, convert mere 
operatives into philosophical thinkers, cause the 
desert to bloom, and which are fast elevating 



THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 347 

unknown nations to rank and happiness ! It is 
incontrovertible, then, that a holy alliance of Im- 
pudence with even a new invented razor-strop, a 
shining blacking, a nonpareil shot-measure, or a 
wonder-working potato-parer, is of far more worth 
to its possessor, than man's noblest contrivances, 
if unhappily associated with that worthless out- 
cast — Humility. The former do prosper in wealth, 
and revel in the loud applauses of the many ; 
whereas the latter do languish in sore disappoint- 
ments, in comparative obscurity, and sometimes, 
in the most galling poverty ! Commend me then, 
to hardy, naked, callous Impudence: for Modesty 
is an arrant simpleton in all such matters, as it 
often enriches the world, whilst it starves itself 
and progeny ; whereas unmitigated Impudence 
doth knock unceasingly at every door, claims as 
its due ten-fold that it receives, and receives a 
thousand-fold more than its deserts. 

It seemeth to me as if a volume would scarce 
suffice to exhaust the praises of Impudence — and 
yet there be a few mawkish people in the world, 
who would retain and practise the old-fashioned 
notions of humihty! I would ask such ill-judging 
people to tell me, if they can, why scandal, when 
cast in profusion on the brightest character, is so 
sure to leave some stains? Is it not that the 
courageous impudence which could attack such 
characters, implies with many, that there must be 
some fault, where so much hath been so boldly 
asserted ? So, also, look at the sanctimonious 
visage of some arch hypocrite^ the people will 



348 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 

measure his piety by the length of his face, and by 
the open display of his numerous self-denials — 
turn, then, to the politician^ and the more of a 
demagogue, the more of a favoured patriot is he — 
observe likewise the would -be-ora^or, the louder 
and more wordy, the more eloquent is he — and 
the scholar^ the more mysterious, transcendental 
and esoterically wordy, the more deeply learned is 
he — and the lawyer^ the more he floats in the 
public gaze, vociferates in courts, asseverates his 
opinion, and compliantly assents to the mere 
wishes of his chents, the wiser, and deeper and 
more skilful is he ! — then the merchant^ the more 
money he spends, the more to spend justly hath 
he,— and to the parvenu^ the larger his hatch- 
ments, and arms of pretensions, the more ancient 
and honourable his pedigree. Nay, pass not by 
even the fine lady^ the more made up of artificial 
appliances, talkative, exacting, and omnipresent, 
the more popular and irresistible is she! Go to 
the opera, the squallynis carry the night — to the 
theatre, the mouthing bellowers are the most ap- 
plauded — to a zoological garden, the monkeys sure- 
ly carry off the palm— to the circus, the clown is 
infallibly the hero of the whole ! In fine, all life 
teems with the glories, the admirable successes 
of pretension, of humbug, and of immortal Im- 
pudence. 

Impudence, then, must be a positive virtue; it 
must be that very summum bonurn^ which, being 
sought during ages, hath escaped the scrutiny of 
closet philosophers, though practised with match- 



THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 349 

less triumph, by the illiterate, and though the 
worldly Uterate have not scrupled to acknowledge, 
and sometimes ardently to pursue it! Is it not, 
therefore, passing strange that, in this our day of 
mental illumination, when any thing is an art, 
and every art a science, Impudence, the most pre- 
cious of them all, should not have been regularly 
indoctrinated, and systematically taught in our 
primary schools, colleges, and universities, that it 
should not have been lectured on by the itinerants, 
and even professorships endowed for its thorough 
inculcation, both as to its principles and practice? 
Give me, then, the degree of Impudeiitm Doctor^ 
rather than that of LL. D., or of J. U. D! since 
the degree I would seek bringeth with it substance^ 
the others a sickly hope^ as little palpable as the 
thin air of an half exhausted receiver, and often 
more worthless than the caput mortuum at the 
bottom of a crucible ! Were the gods to give me 
back my past life, I should study this most august 
of the sciences, with an intense devotion, as being 
the nucleus^ the punctum saliens, yea, the very 
heart's core of all attainable eminence in the uses 
of all human knowledge. 

Impudence of the purest sort, doth truly inspire 
confidence, invigorate the mind, dispel gloom ; 
and doth compensate its votaries with even more 
than usury for their exertions. It doth illustrate, 
perpetuate, and widely diffuse one's fame ; it doth 
greatly enlarge the circle of one's friends, and 
astound and confound all jealous enemies ; and 
eventually, it doth seduce them all to become the 
30* 



350 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 

horns, the trumpets, the cymbals of our surpassing 
merits — the willing agents for the furtherance of 
our numerous conquests ! How 'stale, flat, and 
unprofitable,' then, is modesty along side of im- 
pudence ! How sickly, puhng, and inefficient the 
former, how salient, vigorous, and sempiternal the 
latter! Doth not Modesty starve herself and her 
children — and where is her courage, her talent, 
her genius, her practicalness, her tact?^ She hath 
none, absolutely none : but Impudence is confess- 
edly valiant, is instinct with the means of rendering 
all things profitable to its possessor, and seemingly 
useful to others; is familiar with every narrow lane 
and dirty corner of the human heart, and is equally 
at home in all the broad avenues ; and, in both, 
it walks proudly before mankind, as one conscious 
of true worth, and of native dignity! Infinite in 
tact, boundless in common sense; and familiar 
with the follies of man, Impudence is sure to 
make them all, in some form or other, wiUing 
ministers, retainers, lackeys, and puflfers in the 
great scheme of her successes; and fails not to 
see them all eminently prosperous therein ! Sure- 
ly, therefore, the philosophers must have made a 
sad blunder, a vast mistake herein — but all this 
comes of their reading books^ instead of the great 
volume of human life ! 

The poets have approved themselves far wiser 
on the subject; for, what saith Hudibras, the 
sagest among these poetical authorities? 

He that hath but impudence 
To all things has a fair pretence ; 
And put among his wants but shame. 
To all the world may lay his claim. 



THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 351 

In the same vein doth Oldham discourse when 
he saith, 

Get that great gift and talent : Impudence, 
Accomplish'd man's supremest excellence, 
'Tis that alone prefers, alone makes great. 
Confers all wealth, all titles and estate ; 
Gains place at court, can make a fool a peer. 
An ass a bishop, vilest blockheads rear. 

Look, moreover, at the sons of the Emerald 
Isle, wheresoever found, and, be they lawyers, 
physicians, merchants, soldiers, or poor ditchers! 
Do they not edge all others out, and prosper 
themselves when and where others would lan- 
guish and starve, perhaps, for a maravidi? And 
how cometh this, but that 

Hibernia fam'd 'bove ev'ry other grace 
For matchless intrepidity of face, 

turns with becoming impudence, every misfortune 
into a joke ; quizzes grave philosophy into smiling 
complacency; puts on a bold, plausible, unper- 
turbed exterior; looks one steadily in the face; 
manfully asseverates his claims; vindicates his 
opinions against all facts, and all truth — and 
comes off a chuckling conqueror ! Whereas the 
proud, but modest and blushing Englishman, in 
the like case, and especially if in misfortune, care- 
fully examines his stock of marketable ideas, and 
if these be found comparatively kw and worth- 
less, dreams not of assuming virtues not his own, 
and modestly shrinks into absolute retirement, 
there to starve, rather than to live on the rich 
bounties ever provided for the truly impudent! 
Now, which of the two is the wiser? I pause 



352 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 

not for a reply, every sound mind must render 
the verdict in favour of that most sterling and 
productive of all the virtues — Impudence. 
Contemplate, further, all those numerous 

^Thieves of renown and pilferers of fame,' 

who have suffered others to toil, that they might 
reap the fruits ; or those, who availing themselves 
of the creduUty of man, have indited in their 
closets, ingeniously contrived travels into non-exis- 
tant lands, or of their experience in countries they 
had never visited, or invented wondrous tales con- 
cerning those they had seen — have not all such 
been revellers in good fortune ? Observe, also, those 
who have written plays, as of Will Shakspeare, 
and luxuriated for a time, in the vast ocean of his 
fame ; or those who have manufactured antiquities, 
chuckled and triumphed in the archaiological re- 
searches of the virtuosi, giving thereby double 
proof of the great advantages of Impudence, in 
that the deceiver and the deceived, especially pro- 
fited by their self-created pretensions ! And look 
still further at how admirably those who unblush- 
ingly have taken to themselves the entire works 
of others, which had been lost to the knowledge 
of the world, and boldly published them as the 
offspring of their own brains! or those who pur- 
posely criticize, with unsparing severity, the most 
illustrious works, and thus cause many to suppose 
the critics themselves must be truly great; or those 
who unmercifully damn a book they had never 
read, under hope that their own meagre productions 



THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 353 

on a similar topic, may the more readily succeed ; or 
those who secretly review, most leniently, of course, 
their own works ! — all these will be found in the 
thriving sons of Impudence. Contemplate, more- 
over, those who translate from foreign languages 
the flowers of unknown authors, and garnish 
therewith their own impoverished pages ; and those 
whose wits are ever set upon deceiving mankind 
by that cunningly devised impudence which de- 
stroys, perverts, or mangles the fame of others by 
patronizing reviews, but which, by incomprehensi- 
ble generalities, praises, and yet by numerous insi- 
duous means, turn their author into a very poor 
thing; or, finally, those who, by the like artifices, 
divert the renown of others into their own chan- 
nels, or gain to themselves a lustre by an incessant 
meddling with illustrious names ! — all of which 
persons do daily reap the legitimate fruits of impu- 
dence, showing thereby their own deep acquain- 
tance, with man's unsearchable cullibility, and 
their own admirable tact in culling to themselves 
very many advantages ! 

Such men have been strangely called impostors! 
Are they not rather philosophers of the highest 
order ! for if even unsuccessful in the end, how 
much have they previously gained, and how surely 
do they all live in after history, when the names of 
the modest are clean gone ! Who, for example, 
would have ever heard in our day, of George Psal- 
manazer, that most 'renowned man of impudence,' 
who after finding the life of a wandering vagabond 
profitless, boldly struck out into a new path of such 



354 THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 



« 



wondrous shamelessness, as astounded all men 
and women too, of that day and generation ; and 
for a time, gained to himself many laurels, a good 
deal of money, and an imperishable name for all 
after ages ! 

He was from the south of France. Educated 
for a short time in a Jesuits' college, he assumed 
the habit of a pilgrim, and subsisted on casual 
charities. Among strangers, then, he conceived 
the daring scheme of wholly abandoning his iden- 
tity, and thereupon changed his country, his habi- 
tudes, dress, and, in part, his language, giving out 
that he was a heathen native of an island, then but 
little known, called Formosa! For this purpose, 
he invented an entire new language, carne to En- 
gland as a convert to Christianity, translated the 
church catechism into his Formosan tongue, and 
published a history of this Formosa, in which, 
Avith much ingenuity, he described the people and 
their country, with all requisite details ; invented 
an appropriate religion, with all its ceremonials; 
practised for the curious, its various uncouth exer- 
cises, exhibited a prayer book in his own language, 
with alphabetical characters to be read from right 
to left ! translated passages from classic authors, 
into the language of his own invention ; ate raw 
meats with a becoming gout: stoutly, and most 
brazenly contended in broken French, with a 
learned Jesuit, then late from China, who had less 
faith in the Formosan, than others had; sold va- 
rious editions of his books ; obtained by hisi sole 
influence, for his coadjutor, one Innes, an English 



THE ADVANTAGES OF IMPUDENCE. 355 

clergyman, some church preferment; procured for 
himself the privileges of the University of Oxford — 
and thus gleried and revelled in his matchless 
impudence! The bubble, indeed, burst at last; 
but hath not Master Psalmanazer, secured immor- 
tality for himself? — and did he not, even after, as 
well as before the eclaircissement, reap an abun- 
dant harvest of signal advantages? He surely did, 
for his name became quite too famous, not to at- 
tract those harpies, the booksellers ; and his auto- 
biography, also, gave him, and of course them, 
both money and fame, which never fail to attend 
those, who, shaking oflf old-fashioned notions of 
conscience, and of truth, worship at the altar of 
impudence, with befitting fortitude. 

Let Impudence, then, be the pole-star of every 
man, of every age, and of every profession ; it 
never yet has failed of rich success, and never 
can — so long as man remains a weak, silly, undis- 
criminating being — so long as art can deceive inno- 
cence^ — so long as the multitude hath more foolish 
than wise men to make up their numbers : but if 
destiny irrevocably restricts any one to associations 
with the virtuous, and the truly wise, my counsel 
then is to have no dealings whatever with this 
thing called impudence — for it is then an aquatic 
plant in an arid soil, a bubble in an exhausted 
receiver, an odour with no present olfactories, a 
glaring colour to a blind man ; and, in fine, a thing 
wholly out of its sphere and elements ; and as 
such, destined to withering contempt, and to cer- 
tain death ! 

THE END. 



WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 



Samuel Colman, No. S Jlstor House, Broadway, New York, 
has for sale the following works, by David Hoffman, Esquire, 
and he submits a few notices of each work. 

^Thoughts by A. Grumbler, of Eromitlab.' 1 vol. pp. 374. 

^)Cf- This is the first of a series" of volumes on an infinite variety 
of topics — the design of the series being somewhat intimated by 
the author in his preface and dedication to the 'Peep into my Note 
Book' — the second in the series. 

The following notices indicating the very favourable manner in 
which the first small edition of the 'Grumbler,' was received, 
though issued anonymously, have induced the author to allow the 
publication in New York of a second, in order that the work may 
be more generally diffused according to the apparent demand. 

NOTICES OF THE GRUMBLER. 

*The work is divided into two parts, each into chapters and 
sections. In the first division are treated City Manners in Erom- 
itlab, as Baltimore is termed. He here descants, with much pleas- 
ing information, on the prevailing follies of the day, and beautifully 
holds up to reprobation many of the follies that have crept into the 
good city of Eromitlab. The article entitled 'The Alchemical 
Theory,' is specially worthy the reader's attention. The second 
division is devoted to our national manners, &c. So rare, indeed, 
is the appearance of a work containing such a fund of thought on 
*Men, Manners, and Things' that we perceive in its publication a 
return of mental sanity in book-makers, and book-readers. The 
production does honour to him as a philosopher — patriot — and 
philanthropist. We therefore hope that this work will spread far 
and wide — as a censor moi-um, it will serve to root out many false 
notions — as an exemplar of pure and classical English, it will 
remain as a model for imitation in many respects — and as a valua- 
ble fund of varied learning, it will prove eminently useful.' 

[Baltimore Chronicle. 



A well merited tribute is paid in the annexed article from the 
Christian Statesman, published at Washington, to the admirable 
work of an estimable author. 

Anthony Grumbler, of Grumbleton Hall, Esquire. — 
The popular volume, of which the author has assumed the fore- 
going nom de guerre, has been attributed to Mr. David Hoffman, 
an eminent lawyer of Baltimore, of which city, under the back- 
ward reading of *Eromitlab,' the writer admits himself to be a resi- 
dent. The rumour is alluded to thus plainly, because it has not. 



*^ NOTICES OF THE GRUMBLER. 

SO far as we know, been contradicted ; and because, whether true 
or otherwise, it can detract nothing from Mr. Hoffman's high repu- 
tation, albeit that has been earned by efforts of a very different, 
and of a far more elaborate character. The 'Miscellaneous Tlioughts^ 
of Squire Grumbler, teach principles of religion, morals, politics, 
and literature, so sound, that they may well have emanated from a 
Doctor of Laws. They abound also in interesting descriptions of 
manners. One avowed purpose of these essays being to chastise 
follies, individual and conventional satire was now and then to be 
expected ; but it is never malicious. It is *the wit that loves to 
play, not wound.' Indeed, the writer's benevolence is quite as 
conspicuous as his skill in composition. And this is saying a great 
deal ; for a book of more literary merit has not, perhaps, been pro- 
duced by any gentleman of the long robe, since the publication of 
Butler's Reminiscences. It bears, however, no affinity to that 
work; being a series, or rather an aggregation, of reflections on a 
variety of subjects, with appropriate illustrations. We are happy 
to learn from the 'Prefatory Epistle,' that the public may expect 
to hear from the author again. 



The Jurist has the following notice of the recently published 
work of an estimable and talented fellow-citizen. 

LAW AND LITERATURE. 

Miscellaneous Thoughts on Men, Manners and Things. 
By Anthony Grumbler, of Grumbleton Hall, Esquire. 
Baltimore ; pp. 374. 

Cognizance of a work like the present would hardly seem to fall 
within the limited jurisdiction of a law journal, unless the person 
of the author gave a jurisdiction which could not be founded on 
the subject-matter. When we mention David Hoffman, Esq. 
the able and accomplished author of the Course of Legal Study, 
as the party now in court, all doubt must cease with regard to 
the present extension of our critical cognizance. In England 
we have the brilliant example of Sergeant Talfourd, who, amidst 
the numerous calls of an arduous profession, with added parliamen- 
tary duties, has kept alive an exalted taste for literature, and pro- 
duced works, in this more genial department, which the world will 
not willingly let die. In our country, we take pleasure in adding 
Mr. Hoffman's name to the list of those, who, while serving at the 
highest altars of Themis, have found time to sacrifice to the muses. 
The present volume is a most agreeable and instructive collection 
of thoughts on men, manners and things, expressed in choice and 
polished words, and well calculated to mitigate the hardy skepti- 
cisms and radicalisms, which have so strongly tempered our pre- 
sent age and community. The portions on the judiciary (pp. 213, 
216,) and on the legal profession (pp. 322, 327,) will be very inte- 
resting to the lawyer. The whole volume we commend, in the 
fullest manner, to the candid attention of the reader. With greater 
space we should venture stronger terms of praise ; but we feel 
persuaded that the reputation of the distinguished author will chal- 
lenge for this little book, a notice far beyond the influence of our 
humble page. 



NOTICES OF THE GRUMBLER. 3 

Havino: already assumed jurisdiction of the learned author for 
one purpose, we shall take advantage of his present persona standi 
in judicio, and, by a sort of ac etiam process, open some further 
matters with regard to him. We avail ourselves of the present 
opportunity to renew our testimony to the great merit and useful- 
ness of Mr. Hoffman's legal works. On former occasions, the 
Legal Outlines and Course of Legal Study have both been fully 
examined and commended in the pages of this journal. To the 
latter work, we take pleasure and pride in acknowledging our early 
and constant obligation ; and we should not do our duty to the 
profession, particularly to the student, if we moderated our lan- 
guage. Mr. Hoffman is a benefactor of his profession. More 
than all others, he has contributed to elevate its standard of learn- 
ing and morals, to encourage the young aspirant for its honourable 
rewards, and, as a consequence, to extend its just influence in the 
community. The practiser, absorbed in the daily calls of busi- 
ness, and the young student, for whom the 'gladsome light of 
jurisprudence' is now shining forth, 'may both derive aid, direction, 
and encouragement from this work. There is no single work in the 
whole range of the law, which, with so much interest, imparts so 
much good. If the student can afford to buy but a single book, let 
it be Hoffman's Course of Legal Study, which in itself is a small 
library, besides being a key to a large one. If we lived in an age 
when learning was its own exceeding great reward, and a coatless 
scholar could hope to encounter with composure the stare of the 
world, we should be disposed to repeat, of this work, what the 
great Cujas said of Paul de Castro : Qui non habet Paulum de 
Castro, tunicam vendat, et emat. 



(From the National Intelligencer.) 

In the ripeness of his professional fame he has found opportu- 
nity to prepare a work less grave, though, in its way, scarcely less 
instructive than his former compositions. The 'Thoughts' of this 
agreeable 'grumbler' are the thoughts of an acute mind, invigo- 
rated by professional discipline, and enlarged by liberal studies 
and intercourse with the circles of fashion, as well as of business. 
The manner in which the task is executed is sufficient, of itself, 
to vindicate his brotherhood against the sneer of Hume, that 
lawyers 'are seldom models of science or politeness ;' a remark 
prompted by the distaste of the great historian for the occupation 
for which he was originally intended. 'I found,' he confesses in 
his charming autobiography, 'an insurmountable aversion to every 
thing but the pursuits of philosophy and general learning ; and 
when they fancied I was poring upon Voet and Vinneus, Cicero 
and Virgil were the authors which I was secretly devouring.' 

The 'Miscellaneous Thoughts' are made to consist of two divi- 
sions ; the first, called 'city manners, characters and things ;' the 
second, 'national manners, characters and things.' This classifica- 
tion is, perhaps, somewhat arbitrary. Many of the sketches in the 
first division, instead of being peculiar to city life, are even more 
extensive in their application than some of those under the second 
head. This, however, if it be a fault, is one quite venial ; and the 
ingenious author wiU probably be ready to show* that it is one 



4 NOTICES OF THE GRUMBLER. 

which is inseparable from the subject. His particular plan is 
novel. The celebrated 'characters' of Theophrastus are mere out- 
lines, to be filled up by the judgment or caprice of the reader ; and 
the popular work of our own day, called 'Lacon,' is chiefly epi- 
grammatic. Onr friend Grumbler is more indulgent to his readers. 
Though mindful of the good old maxim, that 'brevity is the soul 
of wit,' he is not so inconveniently curt as to mystify others, but 
states his proposition so distinctly, that, if they are puzzled about 
his meaning, themselves only can be blamed. In many instances, 
the proposition is familiarized by an example ; in some, it is so 
expressed as to require none ; and, in others, the example is itself 
the proposition, but in the most graphic form in which the propo- 
sition could be exhibited. His idea of combining, so to speak, a 
picture with a precept, is a manifest improvement on the plan of 
former works, to which his own bears a generic resemblance. 
~ The writer seems as clearly to perceive, as he is successful in 
obviating, the difficulty of preventing his characters from being 
received as satires on individuals. 'All history,' he remarks, in 
closing some observations on this point, 'sheweth that in such 
matters, as are herein contained, there are minds so conscience- 
stricken as to be wholly incapable of reading them without apply- 
ing to themselves the characters designed for a class ; and should this 
be verified in the present instance, I have but one reply — if they be 
applicable, they whom the cap fits should be grateful for the salu- 
tary reproof — if not, they slander themselves,^ 'Man,' he adds, 'hath 
ever been so much the sport of prejudice, of custom, and habit; so 
many opinions come to him with the hoary locks of time, or in the 
more captivating attire of novelty, and fashion is so lordly a prince, 
his mandates being practised without any inquiry as to the reasona- 
bleness thereof, that there be few who can endure to look upon the 
resplendent face of unveiled truth ; and the many have, thereforey 
an unseemly way of considering those as impertinent pretenders, 
and intruders upon their rights, who essay to rebuke their follies, 
and to breathe 'into the torpid breast of daily life' their chiding 
counsels. And this, especially, is the case, if the reproof be 
lengthened into essays or dissertations, without many of those 
verdant spots by which they seek to relieve themselves from the 
cheerless and arid wastes of moral instruction.' 



(From the New York Star.) 

'Among the writers of America whose pens are contributing to 
the agreeable recreation and moral improvement of their country- 
men, we mention with pride David Hoffman, Esq. of Baltimore. 
This distinguished barrister, after a life well spent in his profes- 
sion, and the attainment of a high reputation by his legal acquire- 
ments and published works, has retired upon an elegant compe- 
tency, and devotes his leisure to the production of a series of moral 
essays, the first of which appeared under the incognito of 'Miscel- 
laneous Thoughts, by Anthony Grumbler, Esq.' We are pleased 
to learn from the Baltimore American that he has now in the press 
a continuation of these under the title of 'A peep into my Note 
Book.' The subjects treated of are of a domestic character, and 



NOTICES OF THE GRTTMBLEK. 



all have a pure moral bearing, and are full of entertaining and 
sprightly anecdote— to which we must be permitted to add that 
they are characterized also by a vigorous and correct style, with 
thoughts that evince a close and accurate acquaintance with man- 
kind, and extensive erudition. We hail Mr. Hoffman as one of 
our first moral essayists.' 



(From the AtheiiBBUtn ) 

*The Grumblings are generally laconic, and some have a quaint- 
ness and humour about them which is peculiarly agreeable, whilst 
others have a terseness and force, which would have done honour 
lo CoLTON himself. 

The author has evidently not passed his life at Grumbleton 
Hall, — he shows the refined taste of a scholar — the polish of a 
gentleman — and the ease of one who has mingled much in society, 
without falling into the errors which he exposes!' The two last 
articles of the volume, entitled ^Delicate Reproof of Swear- 
ing' — and ^Squire Grumbler's Solicitude for, and Fare- 
well TO His Book/ we should like to insert, would our limits 
permit.' 

(From the Philadelphia Gazette.) 

This is evideritly the production of a sound mind, and a master 
of the sententious. He does not, however, impress by antithesis, 
like Lacon ; he is a maker of proverbs and short essays, to many 
of which may be promised a long duration. The author writes 
with ease and with spirit ; objects which by the common eye are 
neglected, are to him provocatives of sensible and salutary thought, 
in morals, manners, and the didactics of life. The writer reasons 
briefly, but acutely ; and appears to be one who, if occasion should 
serve, could exercise his powers successfully on the abtrusest 
topics. His motto, which he derives from Osborne, is a good 
expositor of the volume : — '^As St. Austin saith of short and holy 
ejaculations, that they pierce heaven as soon, if not quicker, than 
more tedious prayers ; so I have reaped greater benefit from con- 
cise and casual remarks on miscellaneous topics, than from long 
and voluminous treatises, relating to one and the same thing.' 



(From the Merchant.) 

Miscellaneous Thoughts on Men, Manners and Things, 
BY Anthony Grumbler, of Grumbleton Hall, Esq. is the 
title of some three hundred pages ; treating, as the title imports, of 
men, manners, and things,, in short notices, which evince that the 
writer is familiar with society, and has studied the subjects on 
which he writes. 



(From Dunglisson's Medical Intelligencer.) 

•There is much truth in the following pertinent observations 
from the pen — if we mistake not — of a distinguished lawyer, David 
Hoffman, Esq. of Baltimore. The whole work, in which they 



6 NOTICES OP THE GRUMBLEK. 

appear, is well worthy of attentive perusal. It is evidently tTie 
production of one accustomed to observe accurately and to reflect 
deeply.' 

[We omit the extract, entitled «The Medical Profession.'! 



(From the American.) 



'There is no difficulty in making extracts from a book, every 
leaf of which, from title page to colophon, merits the reader's 
attention — but he will thank us, we are sure, for directing his 
notice to the work by so agreeable a foretaste of its merit as the 
following. [The extract entitled ' Threading a Needle an Emblem 
of Truth,' we omit.] 

(From the Portland Orion.) 

'Upon running otir eyes again over the work, we find we have 
by no means republished the most interesting portions, and there- 
fore propose to continue our selections, till we have given our 
readers a fair specimen of Mr. Anthony Grumbler's visions and 
original cogitations. [Here followed numerous extracts.] 



CCf* This work has been strongly noticed by the North American 
Review — by several British Journals and Reviews, in all, by more 
than fifty notices. 



S. COLMAN 



Has also for sale a few copies of the author's legal works, 
entitled 

LEGAL OUTLINES, 

complete in one volume, pp. 675 — with a letter addressed to 'British 
Students.' Also, his 

COURSE OF LEGAL STUDY, 

Second edition — re-written and much enlarged, in two volumes, 
paged through, pp. 876. Otf-The recommendations of this work 
nave been so remarkably strong in the United States, Germany^ 
and France, that the entire edition would doubtless have been 
exhausted, had the work been published — only a comparatively 
few copies having been diffused. This work is now, for the first 
time, fully before the public. 

***The author has nearly ready for publication a new work, 
entitled 'Selections from the Chronicles of Cartaphilus, 

THE WANDERING JEW, 

Embracing a period of nearly nineteen centuries.' The first series 
in two volumes, will embrace the life of this extraordinary per* 
sonage, from A. D. 27, to A. D. 800. 



PUBLISHED BY 

JAMES KAY, JR. & BROTHER, Philadelphia. 

HOFFMAN'S 

COURSE OF LEGAL STUDY, 

ADDRESSED TO 

STUDENTS AND THE PROFESSION GENERALLY. 



Second Edition — Re-written and much enlarged, in two volumes^ 
paged through, pp. 876. 

The work is now under the sole agency of Kay & Brother, to- 
whom Booksellers throughout the Union will please apply. 



RECOMMENDATIONS OF THE FIRST EDITION. 

This work is recommended in the strongest terms by Chief 
Justice Marshall, Mr. Justice Story, Chancellor Kent, Judge 
Spencer, De Witt Clinton, Professor Steames, Chief Justice Tilgh' 
man, Mr. Justice Washington, Mr. Justice Story, the Hon. Daniel 
Webster, and by more than 200 eminent lawyers of this and other 
countries. It has been elaborately reviewed by the North Ameri- 
can Review, the Analectic Magazine, and by many other periodi- 
cals. The British and Continental Reviews speak of it in the 
highest terms, and the entire edition was exhausted in eightecB 
months. 

Judge Duvall considers it «a most valuable acquisition to the 
practitioner, and to the student it is inestimable.^ 

Judge Story says 'It is truly delightful to me also to perceive 
that the author does not confine the student to the mere walks of 
the Common law : but he has drawn him to the noble studies of 
the Admiralty, Maritime and Civil Law. The work is an honour 
to our country, and if its precepts are steadily pursued by the 
profession, I think it will not be rashness to declare that the next 
age will exhibit an American bar not excelled by any in Europe. 
No present could be more acceptable than a work which enables 
young men to see the paths of legal science, and points out so 
many excellent instructions to guide and cheer them on their 
journey.' 



8 NOTICES OF THE LEGAL STUDY. 

The North American Review of 34 pages, concludes with saying, 
'In quitting the work we have not the slightest hesitation to de- 
clare that it contains by far the most perfect system for the study 
of the law that has ever been offered to the public. We cordially 
recommend it to all lawyers as a model for the direction of all 
students who may be committed to their charge ^ and we hazard 
nothing in asserting that if its precepts are steadily pursued, high 
as the profession now stands in our country, it will attain a higher 
elevation, an elevation which shall command the reverence of 
Europe, and reflect back light and glory upon the land and the 
law of our forefathers.' 

Chancellor Kent says, 'Whoever foll'ows^ its directions will 
be a well read and accomplished lawyer. Many of the depart- 
ments of the science to whi^h the student is pointed suits my taste 
exactly. 

De Witt Clin'ton says, 'The design is judicious, and the 
execution most felicitous. It contains a mass of information and 
learning seldom equalled, and is an iavaluable guide to legal 
knowledge.' 

RECOMMENDATIONS OF THE SECOND EDITION. 

The Foreign Reviews of England, France, and Germany, have 
favourably noticed this work. 

The London Legal Observer bestows on it a full review, and 
remarks, 'It will be observed, that here the student will find either 
instruction, or the means of obtaining instruction, on every subject 
bearing directly or indirectly, nearly or remotely on all the vast 
field of jurisprudence. We think Mr. Hoffman has made an im- 
portant contribution to the stock of works on the study of the law. 
His book is written with great force and correctness, in an excel- 
lent tone of moral feeling, and with a constant view to the well- 
being and dignity of the profession.' 

Le Droit, a Parisian legal periodical, after speaking of the 
German, English, and American modes of study, remarks, that 
'Although Mr. Hoffmanns work was written for American readers, 
yet French lawyers may consult it with the greatest advantage. 
They will find therein the merits and defects of almost all the 
authors upon this science, either of England, America, or the 
Continent of Europe, pointed out with clearness and precision. 
They will find faithful epitomes of their works, and frequent 
biographical notices replete with interest and learning.' 

MoNS. FoELix, in his Revue Etrangh'e et Francaise, has an 
interesting review of this work, in which he gives the author great 
credit for this and also for his 'Legal Outlines,' and expresses 
great admiration of that portion of the former which relates to legal 
morals or professional deportment. 

The American aotices of this second edition are equally nume- 
rous and laudatory. The Jurist commences with saying, 'This 
is one of the most elegant and interesting law works that tne press^ 



NOTICES OF THE LEGAL STUDY. 9 

of England or America has put forth, since the days of Sir William 
Blackstone. The perusal of it has afforded the same gratification 
to the writer as he derived from the unique, and masterly treatise 
on the principles of pleading by Mr. Sergeant Stephen. There 
is a freshness and originality throughout the pages of these two 
volumes, that prove its author's mind to be thoroughly imbued 
with legal lore, and expanded and adorned by the most liberal and 
diversified studies.' After the Reviewer has thoroughly examined 
the volumes, the editor adds his sanction thus, 'We cannot forbear 
expressing our hearty concurrence with the view^s of the above 
able and learned article, and adding our humble tribute of admira- 
tion and praise of Mr. Hoffman's w^ork. The Course of Legal 
Study is a book, which should be in the hands of every student, 
and on the table of every practitioner. Mr. Hoffman is eminently 
the students friend, and his advice and encouragement cannot fail 
to cheer the desponding, to excite the iiidolent, and to confirm the 
ambitious and ardent in the arduous studies before them — 'I never 
read the old song of Percy and Douglass,' says Sir Philip Sydney, 
'without feeling my very heart stirred as by the sound of a 
trumpet ;' nor do we believe that the law student, whose mind and 
heart are properly attuned to the calls of duty, can read Mr. Hoff- 
man's book without feeling an impulse, scarcely less moving, than 
that which stirred the bosom of the accomplished knight, and 
which he has with such stirring language expressed.' 

(From the National Gazette.) 

Hoffman's Course of Legal Study. 

A friend, a member of the bar, has just shewn us this new work. 
It is in two beautiful royal octavo volumes; and is, in point of 
point of paper, type, and mechanical execution, a credit to the city 
of Baltimore, whence it emanates. To judge from the varied con- 
tents of the two volumes, and from what has been communicated 
to us in reference to them, it would seem that the profession of our 
country owe the eminent lawyer who has written them, a large 
debt. Mr. Hoffman has been among the first and most efficient in 
introducing liberal and expanded views of Law Studies throughout 
the Union, and in promoting legal education. The first edition of 
this work, published more than fifteen years ago, in one volume, 
has, we are told, done great good, by spreading out as on a map, 
the devious and toilsome paths through which the student is com- 
pelled to struggle, in order to attain a scientific and suitable know- 
ledge of the law. That edition was exhausted within two years 
after its publication. It strikes us, from a hasty survey of the 
pages of the Legal Study, that it is replete with rich and instruc- 
tive matter, and abounds with information that the student, who 
wishes to become an accomplished and elegant lavryer, should not 
be devoid of. The mature student and practitioner too, must find 
in the stores that the laborious and industrious author has thus col- 
lected, much that will grace and increase his learning. We find 
the names of the most eminent lawyers and judges of the country 
in the catalogue of those who have expressed their sense of the 
value and importance of the labours of Mr. Hoffman in this 
department of legal education. 



10 NOTICES OF THE LEGAL STUDY. 

The Baltimore American^ in noticing the various articles of the 
January number of the North American Review, says : 

'Article fourth is (especially to the legal student) an interesting 
notice of 'Hoffman's Course of Legal Study,' as enlarged, and 
lately presented to the public in a second edition. This paper 
awards high, but vrithout doubt, deserved praise to the author of 
the work under consideration, for the marked ability of its execu- 
tion. As touching its general scope and character, the Reviewer 
observes, that the members of the profession of the law owe a 
debt of gratitude to Mr. Hoffman, for his endeavours to elevate 
it, by the comprehensive course of liberal studies, which he has^ 
presented to its students. But yet more honourable is the award, 
and yet more justly valued should be the testimonial of the Re- 
viewer, in the following remarks, which, as they comprise a lesson 
of high value in themselves, we gladly transcribe : 

'We should be guilty of gross injustice to Mr. Hoffman if we 
omitted to mention, with the highest commendation, the tone of 
moral feeling, which breathes from every page of his work. He 
loses no opportunity to impress upon the mind of the youthful stu- 
dent, that it is not enough for him to be a good lawyer, and a good 
scholar, but that he must also be a good man, and that the highest 
attainments are imperfect, without that delicate moral sense which 
feels a stain like a wound, and that resolute moral strength which 
makes a man submit to be torn in pieces rather than do what he 
knows to be wrong. His remarks on Professional Deportment are 
conceived and written with an energy and glow, which remind us 
of some of the most eloquent passages in the ethical writings of 
Cicero.' 

The Princeton Review, and Biblical Repertory, contains a 
detailed notice of this work, in fifteen pages, and speaks of it in 
the same tone of strong commendation. 

LEGAL OUTLINES. 

This work of the author has met with an equally strong praise. 
The volume has now assumed a new form, the author having relin- 
quished for the present, the design of adding the other two volumes. 
It is now presented zs. a single volume, and a perfect work, being 
thus published with a view to its re -publication in England, and 
contains an address to British law students. There are but a few 
copies remaining of this work, either in its late, or in its present 
form. 

Mr. Hoffman's Literary Works are likewise for sale by KAY 
& BROTHERS. 

Philadelphia, September, 1839. 










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